


a small clock seen faintly

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (mostly), Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, BAMF Peggy Carter, Barnes Family, Canon Compliant, Gen, Historical References, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Multi, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: On either side of Steve Rogers: a man of shadow, a woman behind the scenes.Glimpses into Peggy Carter's life and the ghost stories left behind
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if this seems familiar it's because it's basically a novelization of the 'a small clock seen faintly' series i wrote ages ago but then i never finished it sooo here we are

“…like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of the night… knowing what it had to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses, but moving also toward a new sun.” – Ray Bradbury,  _ Fahrenheit 451 _

_ \------ _

There is a lullaby to cryo: the steady hum of the generator, the irregular click of machinery. They meld together, settle into the blue-grey frost cradling the asset. It slides out of consciousness and lingers there, empty. It drifts, time an unseen ship passing it by. Occasionally, rarely, it finds its brain awake - expansive and attentive behind ice-sealed eyelids. It hangs suspended in unstirred tranquility. There are voices beyond the darkness, beyond the ice. They yell sometimes and argue often, but they are muffled and muted. These do not concern it.

There is something missing.

There is something it should be looking for.

The blue seeps in, deep, deeper. The asset sleeps.

_ 1948 _

_ The Hague _

“Yes, Mr. Jarvis, I  _ know _ . Now, do you have any useful information or am I-”

The congress is coming to a close, and she’s almost out of time to get the file they’re after. The phone’s still against her ear, her name repeated in Jarvis’ rounded tones, but her eyes have abandoned the papers spread over the office’s desk. 

There’s a ghost cutting through the ballroom. His face is clean and clean-shaven, smile slick as a razor’s blade. Guests’ gazes slide over him as if they’re seeing through him to the other side of the room, and she can only catch glimpses - a three-quarter view, a profile. She leans forward, hungry for denial. He turns, knife’s edge smile flicked her way. His eyes are hollow and blue as ice.

She’s out the door before the phone hits the floor.

_ “Miss Carter?!” _

He’s already moving away, sliding through the party like a knife, like a shark, like a phantom no one else can see. She’s murmuring excuse-me’s and sorry’s as fast as she can shove through them, but she cannot pass through the way her ghost did. She is tangible, felt. 

She’s elbow-to-chest with a stubborn ambassador when the shot rings out. The crowd flinches like a cow’s hide, a ripple of shock, and the ambassador turns just enough for her to push past. Everyone is running, everyone is racing to find their loved ones, their safety. A shadow separates from the wall and walks slowly, steadily away.

She follows.

He moves like a storm, like a wolf, like he is inevitable: no matter how quickly his quarry flees, he will overtake them. There is something terrifying in that slow prowl. 

She loses him in the shadows of a deserted hallway, five minutes’ run from the ballroom. Hand steady on her Walther, she takes careful steps - each foot placed heel-to-toe in a cautious line down the corridor. He’s still there, she knows. He has to be.  _ I saw him. He’s real _ , she reminds herself. The face itself might have been a trick of the light, but that there was someone there, that there was a man with a gun and a bloodletting smile, is indisputable.

There’s a flicker – something in the corner of her eye - Her hand shoots up to block a broad palm going for her throat. His leg whips out instead. Her knees buckle. Her gun’s up before he moves again – but a door opens down the hall. Light slips out, and her heart tears through her chest.

“Dear God,” she breathes. “James.”

He freezes, blank eyes staring through her. There’s a furrow in that heavy brow, slight as a shadow.  _ This is how I die, _ she thinks numbly.  _ Killed by a dead man.  _ It flashes through her mind like an obituary headline, but, of course, they’d never say that. They’d say something inane, that she suffered from a previously unknown condition, that she had a weak heart.

His left hand cracks across her temple. 

She comes to on the hallway floor, her face throbbing like an open wound. Her hand comes away sticky with blood, but it’s already becoming tacky. She groans and drops her hand back to the cool, hard floor. It’s still dark, and laying there on the tile, she feels for a moment as a corpse within a tomb. 

“Bloody hell,” she says.

It takes a few moments longer for her to pull in a breath before shoving herself to her feet. She stumbles to the car and drives to the hotel in a haze. Her mind is white noise all the way up to the fourth floor. She raps hard on the door, and it swings open.

“Pegs!” Howard yelps. “What happened?”

She starts to shake her head, but the world shifts as if on a tilt-a-whirl. She squeezes her eyes shut. A hand takes her elbow and guides her over to sit down on something soft.

“Miss Carter, can you speak?” Jarvis asks.

She opens her eyes to find herself sitting on the easy chair in the corner of the hotel room.

“It’s only a concussion, Mr. Jarvis,” she says.

He gives a tight smile, worry lines still creased on his forehead. He turns quickly away to rummage in a duffel by the bed. Within a minute, he’s returned triumphant with a black-and-white first aid kit in hand.

“Peggy, what happened?” Howard presses.

“Our shooter has a mean left hook,” she says as Jarvis blots away blood. 

Howard’s eyebrows jerk up in disbelief.

“He got the drop on you?” he asks.

It says something about Howard’s engagement with their fledgling intelligence agency that he still considers her the paramount spy. She would be flattered if she knew it weren’t true. She is still human; her time with the SSR taught her that others were not.

Howard putzes around the room while Jarvis works, fiddling with anything within arm’s reach. His face is as easy to read as a typewriter straight from the case, and Peggy is silently grateful he never attempted espionage. He is the only man alive who would make Jarvis seem in league with Wake or Borrel.

Jarvis, meanwhile, is silent. 

Peggy’s face is bloody and messy, and her skull pounds like a B-24’s taking off just inside. It’s enough to make her certain she imagined it. What’s dead is dead; ghosts don’t reign except in fairytales and nightmares. And if they did, this one wouldn’t come for her. It would linger in the arctic, crystal white. And yet –

“Howard, do you remember the fall of ’44? When Sergeant Barnes was shot,” she asks.

His shoulders stiffen like a live wire. When he turns to her, his expression is elaborately sarcastic.

“Y’mean when the Howlies all turned into a bunch of pansies?” he scoffs. “Thought Rogers was gonna give himself an ulcer.”

He throws it out carelessly, but there’s a tautness in the back of his jaw that she recognizes. It’s there every time his ship returns empty from the North.

“Were any records kept of his recovery?” Peggy asks.

“Morita took care of it. Just a graze after all that,” Howard answers decisively.

The sarcasm has vanished in place of solemnity: his arms are crossed, shoulders squared, and his always-in-motion hands are tucked into stillness under his arms. It makes her itch, but if it’s a fight he wants, he won’t get it.

“What’s this about, Pegs?” he demands.

“It’s nothing,” she lies. “I think I just need to rest.”

“You almost surely have a concussion, Miss Carter. You really should stay awake,” Jarvis pipes in.

She bites back a retort and instead lets her body slump like defeat. She rests the left side of her head in the careful cradle of her fingertips and lets her eyes soften with unshed tears. The effect is instantaneous.

“Just take it easy, Pegs,” Howard relents. “I’ll be in the other room.”

He and Jarvis leave, and she’s alone in the silent bedroom. She sighs, wipes the crocodile tears from her eyes, and slumps back against the chair.

It’s the concussion, surely. Dead men don’t walk, no matter what she thought she saw. Illusions, tricks of tired eyes – none of it’s real. She knows that, knows it was only a play of light at the right angle on the right features.

The knowledge doesn’t silence that choking quiet coiling tight around her stomach like a poison.  _ I don’t need another ghost, Barnes. Not one I couldn’t save. _ She’s already got a collection, stored close to her heart. There isn’t room for more.

The thought is still with her when she's returned to DC and her heels click on the sidewalk outside their apartment. Her hat’s tipped low when she comes home, and her left-sided smile doesn’t raise any questions when she passes their neighbors on the stairs. She takes her time walking to their door; her luck won’t last past the threshold. Outside the door, she pauses and steadies herself. She has faced pigheaded brass, alien technology, enemy armies. She pushes the door open.

“Hey, English.”

Angie’s waiting in the kitchen, smile sunny as a June day when she looks up. The affection in her voice is a tangible thing, a heart-aching warmth that makes Peggy’s spine melt.

“Hello, Ang,” Peggy replies.

She flashes her one-sided smile and keeps her right side carefully hidden as she gingerly hangs her coat and sets down her briefcase. The hat is the last to go.

“Jesus, Peggy!” Angie yelps immediately. “What happened?”

She’s fast, already past the kitchen and in the foyer to reach for Peggy’s face. Admittedly, it is a small flat: only a few steps will take either of them from door to window. Usually, Peggy enjoys it, enjoys the security it provides with its ever-present evidence of Angie’s presence: her coat thrown carelessly over the wingback, her book facedown on the counter, her faint perfume lingering in the air.

Now, with Angie cradling her face carefully between soft palms, it feels like a trap.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Peggy answers, apologetic.

They struck a careful balance when they moved here together, one that’s kept the ruse going for this many months. Angie keeps a respectable boyfriend who sticks around just short enough to not raise any questions, and they sidestep any queries about marriage with innocent excuses about not having the right partner just yet. No one ever questions it: they’re both good girls, and good girls don’t fuck girls.

This, of course, is part of their balance, too: Peggy can’t tell her what happens on her “business trips,” and Angie’s learned not to ask. Her expression still pinches tight, though, a worried crease in her brow and a downward turn to the corner of her lips. She reaches up on tip-toe to press a soft kiss to Peggy’s forehead and pulls away. Peggy catches her, though, and pulls her in for a real kiss.

“You need ice,” Angie insists, lips brushing Peggy’s.

“It’s fine,” Peggy insists.

Angie laughs, a warm breath of air against Peggy’s lips, but she still pulls away. Peggy’s hand lingers around her wrist, but it only serves to pull her towards the kitchen rather than Angie back to her. She leans her hips against the counter and watches Angie fuss with the ice.

“You got a letter,” Angie says, stepping back into Peggy’s space. “From – uh, Barnes?”

Peggy jolts back from the touch of the cloth-wrapped ice.

“Barnes?” she demands.

“Yeah, with an ‘e’,” Angie confirms. “How come?”

Peggy’s moving away from the counter in a heartbeat, aimed for the letterbox by the front door, but Angie’s hand catches in her elbow. With an insistent tug, she pulls her back.

“Uh-uh,” she scolds. “You hold this on there, and I’ll get it.”

Her expression is unwontedly firm, her voice commanding. Peggy relents, ice pack pressed gingerly to her sore face. Angie returns within a few seconds, apparently having already brought the mail into the living room. It’s a plain white envelope, curling black script traced neatly over the surface.

“Miss Miriam Barnes,” Angie reads, trading Peggy the envelope for the ice pack. “Know her?”

“I knew her brother,” Peggy says.

The edge of the ice pack keeps getting in the way of her vision, and she finally huffs an exasperated breath. Holding the letter towards Angie, she offers a weak smile.

“Would you?”

Angie’s face slackens, eyes wide and startled. Abruptly, it shifts into a pleased smile that sends warmth bubbling champagne-like in Peggy’s chest. She takes the letter again and carefully slits the the envelope while Peggy presses the ice pack to her cheek. She’s secretive with her correspondence, she knows, but this hardly seems covert.

“Oh,” Angie starts, frowning. “It’s a wedding.”

Peggy blinks before frowning as well.  _ Surely that’s not a new code… _

“Miss Miriam Rachel Barnes and Mr. Abner Ezra Cantor invite you to celebrate with us. The marriage ceremony will be held on October the twelfth at three o’clock. Kol Israel Synagogue…Brooklyn. Reception to follow at the Stork Club. Please RSVP,” Angie reads, humming over the addresses.

She glances up to offer Peggy a small smile.

“Well ain’t that fancy,” she teases before pausing to flip the card around. “Huh. There’s a note. ‘Regardless of response, please join me for coffee at Sam’s Crescent Café at eleven o’clock, September 20 th .’ Signed, ‘NB.’”

Her eyebrows raise, matching Peggy’s bewildered expression. Her eyes flit over Peggy’s face, clearly looking for an explanation, but Peggy has none to give.

“NB?” she echoes, instead.

“Take it they’re not from the phone company?” Angie prompts.

It’s possible, but Peggy can’t imagine any SHIELD operative using Barnes’ name as a cover, much less his sisters’. She’s received invitations in the past, to two funerals and a few ‘small soirees’ as the cards described. She’s declined each.

“No,” she answers slowly, “I don’t think so.”

Angie frowns a little at that, setting the card aside to dab at the half-healed cuts on Peggy’s face. Immediately, Peggy’s stomach turns over like she hasn’t eaten in too long; that face almost always bodes ill, and Peggy’s not sure she’s up for a fight.

“Well,” Angie starts with false cheer, “I guess you’ll find out on your date.”

Peggy relaxes, smiles, and lets Angie finish cleaning up her face. Then she takes it, setting it on the countertop. Angie shoots her an annoyed side-eye, but her lips give her away: they quirk upwards just before she leans in to press them into Peggy’s.

Ghosts and mysteries can wait.

_ \------ _

  
  


Its skin buzzes like electricity’s crawled beneath it, restless in its bones. The technicians peel away its armor, its pants and shirt. In the bare room of the vault, it stands naked with only sweat and grime ground into its skin.

_ It’s just the two of them in this shitty little foxhole. The snow’s leeching away his body heat till his cheeks are numb, but he’ll be damned if he cuddles up to Carter. He likes her sure enough, and he knows she’ll be good for Steve. Still, his heart is greedy, and it wants what she’s taken. He keeps his eye pressed to the scope and tries to tamp down the ragged, hungry edges chewing through his chest. _

_ “You seem like a classy dame, Carter,” he finally says. _

_ An agent steps out of the door followed by three others. He shifts to work the rifle’s bolt with his right hand. _

_ “And Steve’s a solid judge of character,” he continues. _

_ The bodies drop  _ one two three four  _ all neat and tidy. _

_ “But he still thinks we’re all gonna’ get outta’ this war and go home to picket fences. So,” he says. _

_ A guard peeks out the open door. Pop.  _ Five.

_ He can feel Carter glance over at him before returning to her binoculars. More guards are coming, trying to use the flat concrete front of the building as cover.  _ Eight nine ten.  _ Twelve goes down from a bullet that passes through eleven’s neck. _

_ “Do you have a point, Sergeant?” she asks. _

_ This is why he likes her, really – you could paint her in gore and bone shards and she’d still step out cool as ice. She’s like marble, unbreakable. _

_ “You fuck ‘im over and it doesn’t matter how deep a grave, I will come back for you,” he finishes. “That’s not a promise I’m breaking.” _

_ His voice hurts with all he’s not saying. It drags out of his throat with sandpaper palms and sharp nails.  _ Please, please let them get out of this. Let him have a life. _ He hasn’t prayed in years, but a line from the Shema comes to him unbidden: ‘Beware, lest your heart be deceived and you turn and serve other gods.’  _ Too late, _ he thinks. His apostasy started long ago. _

_ “You missed one,” Carter says. _

_ Fourteen drops with their hand inches from the door. _

_ \------ _

One of the benefits of being the co-founder of a brand new intelligence agency, Peggy’s found, is that no one questions her lunch times. Everyone in the office has rendezvous and meets, and within this small corner of the world, Agent Carter is a luminary. She doesn’t have to worry about a star-spangled shadow.

It’s two minutes till eleven when she reaches the café, and she doesn’t bother glancing at the lewd sign. She’s heard of Sam’s, of course, but she’s never had reason to visit. She can’t say she regrets it.

A quick sweep of the room reveals three senators, a House representative, and a handful of businessmen she recognizes through their fights with Howard. They grin and talk with the lazy, smug expression of fat cats lapping cream from China saucers. 

Only one figure isn’t. Square and well-dressed, a young brunette sits alone at a table and watches out the window. She wears a familiar look of indifference, one designed to keep people away. Peggy knows: she learned it from the girl’s brother.

“Good morning, Ms. Barnes,” she greets.

She slides into the booth across the table, and the girl glances up. She pulls her lips up in an all-too-familiar not-smile and inclines her head politely. It’s the same practiced look, like she mimicked her brother until she thought she had it, but it’s not quite right. She isn’t her brother; she’s too bright to be a ghost. There are laughter lines in the corners of her eyes that aren’t ancient artifacts; there is life in her dark eyes. 

“Naomi, if you don’t mind,” she says. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much for walking away from a mystery,” Peggy replies.

Naomi grins wide, impulsive, at that. The lingering after-image of her brother is gone: James Barnes never smiled like that. Peggy relaxes, hackles lowering as they glance over their menus.

“What brings you to D.C.?” she asks.

She orders a baked ham sandwich and Naomi a roast beef. The waitress offers a faded-lipstick smile and assures them it’ll be right out. Peggy folds her hands over the table and watches Naomi.

“I wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome at Miri’s wedding,” Naomi says finally.

“I received the invitation,” Peggy replies.

Naomi scoffs and crosses her arms. Her green dress bunches up around her shoulders as she does so, like a cat ruffling its fur.

“Yeah, and about half a dozen others,” she retorts. “You haven’t showed up at those, either.”

Peggy’s lips press into a thin line, and she pauses to study the girl before her. Even Howard doesn’t ask her to be this forthright. It’s jarring.

“The war was an important part of my life,” she concedes, “but I try to keep it separate from my life now.”

“Yeah,  _ bull _ . Strategic homeland yada yada? Like we don’t all know what that’s for,” Naomi retorts.

Peggy stiffens, and Naomi huffs out a sigh. She has the grace to look chagrined, at least.

“Look, you don’t have to come. I know you and Buck got along like Jones and spiders,” she says, “but Steve loved you, and that makes you family – if you want it. We just want you to know we’re here if you want us.”

There’s a funny catch in her lungs that Peggy doesn’t quite recognize. Surely she isn’t coming down with a cold. She swallows and glances down at the ugly beige table top.

“They were that close, were they?” she asks.

She doesn’t need to: a base in Italy, a foxhole in Germany – the devotion between the two of them was thick and red as blood.

“Steve and Buck?” Naomi pauses before laughing softly. “Oh, yeah. My first memory’s Ma chewing Bucky out for bringing home a scraped up Irish boy right before Shul. Think that was the only time he ever missed till – well, ‘til he moved out.”

Her voice dips a little at the end and her gaze slips down and to the right. She flicks her gaze up with a hasty smile, though, and there’s a brief pause as the waiter returns with their sandwiches.

“Didn’t take long for Ma to take Steve in after that,” Naomi finishes. “He spent half our childhood in our kitchen.”

Peggy smiles at that. It’s hard to imagine either Steve or Barnes as children when most her memories of them are gore-spattered and worn.

“They seemed unlikely friends during the war,” Peggy admits.

Naomi laughs brightly and nods. There’s an expression of comfortable bemusement on her face, like she’s pondered this exact thing and never quite sorted it out.

“The Brooklyn boy who could charm the soul outta’ the devil and the scrawny storm cloud that followed him around?” she agrees. “Tell me about it.”

_ Not quite how I’d describe them. _ She keeps her smile, but the description crawls under her skin and unsettles her. Steve could have won the war simply through his charisma and heart, she sometimes believes. Barnes? Barnes would have killed till there was no one left to fight.

“Buck would’ve done anything for that kid,” Naomi mutters before she catches herself. “Look at me, going on about someone you didn’t even like. Sorry.”

“I didn’t dislike James,” Peggy hedges. “We didn’t know each other well.”

Naomi’s lips twitch in what looks like amusement. There’s a knowing look in her eyes, like she’s privy to a joke Peggy’s never heard.

“Well, thanks for that,” she allows. “But really, how are you doing? How’s D.C. treating you?”

“It…has been an adventure,” Peggy answers after a moment.

Naomi’s lips split in a grin and she leans forward. 

They talk for an hour, and then Peggy really does have to go. The world, after all, can only be delayed, not stopped. 

She doesn’t see Naomi for three weeks, and she’s running missions till the last minute.

The night of the wedding, she's running late.  _ Howard’s fault _ , she thinks as she dodges punches. Howard, on the other hand, is cowering somewhere behind her. 

“You’re the brawn, I’m the brains!” he yelps. “I mean, not that you’re  _ brawny _ or anything, of course. It’s just-”

“Howard,  _ shut. up _ ,” Peggy snaps.

She catches one of the thugs behind the knee and twists to yank him down. Her hair’s fallen loose and strands stick to her sweaty forehead.

“You are a weapons manufacturer! You should know how to use what you make,” she snaps.

He yells back, something about guns not being his forte, but she doesn’t get to respond. The thug she’s been dancing around has finally grabbed her and shoves her hard into the wall. His meaty fingers are tight around her throat, and her own scrabble across the wall for something to use as a weapon. 

Her fingers wrap around a lamp. She swings it into the thug’s head once, twice, three times. He stumbles back. She kicks him hard in the gut. He topples to the ground. She can’t tell if he’s dead or just unconscious: the side of his head is covered in a bloody smear. She slumps against the wall and gulps in air. For now, her neck is only tender, but it feels as if there will be great purple bands there in the morning. She winces at the thought of Angie’s worried frown.

“I got the plans,” Howard says.

He’s straightened up from behind a desk, manila file in hand.

“Marvelous,” she replies, hoarse.

He gives what she thinks is meant to be a sympathetic look. Forcing herself straight, Peggy takes a painful breath.

“Still need that ride?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”

The car ride is silent at first, just the honks and buzz of traffic. Peggy uses it to tuck her hair back into place and straighten her suit. It isn’t quite wedding appropriate, but it will have to do.

“What’s Barnes’ family trying to do – adopt the whole SSR?” Howard finally asks.

They’re halfway to the club, but the question sets something twisting uneasily in her gut.

“I believe they only wish to help,” she replies.

She leaves it at that and doesn’t add the rest:  _ It feels like penance, like they’re trying to atone for something _ . Howard has tried the same with his endless hours scouring the Arctic, and she knows better than to give him any new ideas. Children are not meant to be absolution.

Howard doesn’t press it, and he drops her off with little more than a ‘see you later.’

She’s shown to a room with people packed from wall to wall and barely an inch between. It makes her breath catch and seize. There are too many people, and they’re blocking all the sightlines. She can only spot one exit, but she can’t say if it’s the only entrance. She freezes.

“Carter!” Dugan bellows.

He flings his arms wide in greeting, and her breath rushes back as she smiles.

They’re all there except Dernier. Falsworth’s been cornered by a pretty little girl with ribbons in her near-black pigtails, but the other three shake her hand and smile. None seem drunk for once, but then, the war is over for most of them. Has been over. She wonders, briefly, what it’s like to have that distance. Beside her, Morita gives a nod and doesn’t say much. She saw him last just before he left on a mission for SHIELD three weeks ago. She hasn’t heard the results yet. 

Falsworth finally escapes his pint-sized interrogator, and she recognizes the shadows under his eyes. His war, then, isn’t over either. He acknowledges her with a friendly incline of his head.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.

“Well, I can’t spend every day working,” she replies.

“Good!” a new voice declares. “Weddings aren’t for business. Not in this family.”

A glass of champagne is pressed into her hand, and she starts from more than the cold of the glass. She turns, just enough to see the newcomer.  _ God’s sake, Barnes, cut your hai- _ Peggy freezes. Naomi Barnes had shared threads and stitches with her brother, but this woman is cut from the very same cloth. Those same iced eyes, the half-curled smirk – only the dimple in her chin is missing.

“Becca Proctor,” she introduces herself, extending a hand. “You must be Agent Carter.”

Peggy accepts it with a firm shake, startled by the prominent bones and strong grip. She shouldn’t be. She saw James Barnes’s hands disassemble his rifle with the same spare grace countless times. 

“Peggy,” she amends.

Becca smiles, and it’s beautiful, it’s terrifying, it’s a ghost.

\------

The asset has been out of cryo for too long. It can feel the chill of the metal table against its skin, the constant buzzing where the metal arm drags heavy on its spine, the prickling fear as technicians orbit the room.

It can feel, and it is terrified.

\------

Becca laughs. Her head’s thrown back to expose a slender white throat, highlighted by the lamps around the room.

“Please tell me you got him back for that,” she says.

Peggy smiles but keeps her expression purposefully guileless.

“Oh, only a little.”

Peggy wonders, in the momentary lull in conversation, if she isn’t haunted. Becca’s whipcord lean with a wit like a sniper’s shot, and her smile looks like cut glass. Her gestures and expressions carry the spectres of another. 

The others have been tugged away in one way or another: Jones got taken to the dance floor by Naomi, Falsworth by his previous interrogator, and Dugan by the lure of a particularly good bottle of Scotch. It’s only Peggy and Becca now, and from the way Becca’s eyes narrow just-so, Peggy thinks that’s intentional. Her heart stutters and speeds up.

“I heard about Naomi’s ambush,” Becca says.

“I’m not sure it’s an ambush when I went willingly,” Peggy replies.

The corner of Becca’s lip quirks up, and she shifts her gaze to survey the room. It’s an absent, habitual motion, and Peggy wonders what front she’s used to.

“She’s well-meaning, if rather forward,” Becca says. “Got it from Steve, I guess.”

Peggy starts a little at the comparison, but she can see it. Shortly after the incident with Lorraine, Steve had appeared at Peggy’s door. Flustered and blunt, he’d spilled his guts. It was the most artless confession Peggy ever received. It was also the one she held onto.

“The rest of us could probably take a cue from her,” Becca admits.

She takes another sip of her champagne, and the both of them are quiet for a few moments. Around them, the crowd is shifting to make more room for the dancers as they break into a carefree Lindy. Falsworth’s steps stutter a little, and Jones makes some crack that leaves them both laughing.

“If you’re ever in the city on a Saturday,” Becca starts abruptly, “Mama makes some mean griddle cakes.”

There’s an excuse there, about not liking pancakes or being too busy. It’s strangled in the face of Becca’s cool patience. There’s a sniper’s stillness in her wait and a mother’s warmth in her blue eyes.

“It’s been a long time since I had pancakes,” Peggy admits cautiously.

Becca’s lips stretch in a smile. A young man, sandy-haired, squeezes through the crowd to offer Becca his hand. She takes it but doesn’t follow him yet.

“Nine AM,” she says, “but we don’t judge if you’re late.”

She lets herself be pulled away, and Peggy watches them squeeze onto the floor. They slide in amongst the rest of the dancers seamlessly, as in-time with each other as if they were one. Becca’s smile had warmed under Peggy’s skin like sunshine, honest and openly pleased. It settles there, new but welcome. With the mob of well-wishers crowding around her and champagne bubbling in her glass, she wonders if this is what family feels like.

Three weeks later, she thinks  _ Not quite. _ She’s in New York for work – transferring files from the dying SSR to SHIELD’s rapidly expanding database. It’s strictly secretarial work, but these files aren’t ones she wants just anyone’s hands on. Thumbing briefly through the fat manila folders, she swallows at a particularly brutal brief. She remembers it, even if she wishes she didn’t.

_ “And how exactly did you get this operative to ‘cooperate’?” she’d asked, elbow on the desk’s edge and spine stiff. _

_ He’d sat half-sprawled in the chair opposite her with distant, half-hooded eyes. There’d been a tension running through him like a live-wire, some distant warning buzz humming off him. _

_ “Charm,” he’d drawled. _

_ His voice was cocky, unbothered, but his expression remained shuttered. _

_ “Please elaborate, Sergeant Barnes,” she’d prompted, “unless you wish to write this yourself.” _

_ He’d glanced down at his bandaged hand, almost in surprise, and blinked before turning his chilly gaze towards her. He wasn’t the first soldier she’d seen with hollow eyes, but there was a hunger there that unsettled her. _

_ “You really wanna’ know, Agent?” he’d asked. _

_ “I am no schoolgirl, Barnes,” she’d snapped. _

She closes the file with a sharp jerk of her wrist. She could take death, war, torture, but there had been something stomach-churning in the dead gaze that had fallen over his eyes as he outlined the ‘charm’ he’d used on their late prisoner. She hadn’t offered to write any other briefs for him. Instead, she’d spent the rest of that week striving to keep Steve separate from him. To her surprise, Barnes hadn’t uttered a word of protest; if anything, he seemed inclined to help her.

Now, standing in a half-empty office in the small, dusty building that houses the remains of their war, she wonders at that. Bulletproof Barnes and his Achilles heel the precise size and shape of Steve Rogers.  _ ‘Buck would’ve done anything for that kid.’ _ She knows, with a chilling certainty, it’s true.

Her stomach gives a quiet grumble, and she starts. It’s only eight, but the memory of Becca’s invitation tugs uncertainly at her attention. She locks the files into her briefcase and nods to the men on her way out. Outside, she pauses at a payphone to dial the number Becca wrote on a napkin and pressed into Peggy’s palm nearly a month prior.

“Barneses,” a young voice answers.

“Hello, this is Peggy Carter,” she replies. “Is Rebecca there?”

There’s a pause and the sound of a stifled yawn. Then, the other end is suddenly muffled as if pressed against something. It does little to mask the shouted  _ ‘Becca! Phone!’ _ that’s belted out.

Peggy shifts her weight onto both feet and surveys the street ahead of her. It’s busy, of course: no matter how late New York stays up, it can never escape its commuters’ early mornings.

“Hello, Rebecca Proctor here.”

“Hello, it’s Peggy – Carter,” Peggy repeats.

“Hi Peggy. What can I do for you?” Becca asks.

Her voice is the same as the one she used as the reception stretched on: contained but warmer, half-thawed. Peggy takes it as encouragement.

“I’m in the city and wondered if – well, if your invitation to breakfast still stood,” she explains.

“Of course!” Becca says immediately. “We’d love to have you. Do you need the address?”

Peggy glances down at her briefcase. Each of the Commandos’ profiles is in there with name, age, and next of kin listed in neat typeset.

“No, I think I have it,” she says. “Brooklyn, still?”

“The Old Homestead, yeah,” Becca affirms. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

They exchange goodbyes, and then Peggy’s standing there staring at the black case at her feet with a pinch of guilt; the Commandos’ files are meant to be top-secret, classified for all but the highest echelons of security – not her personal address book. She unlocks the case and flicks through them for Barnes’.

His next of kin is messy, the type overwritten with sharp pen strokes and angular writing. Peggy frowns reading it.  _ Steve Rogers 40 Water St., Brooklyn, NY 11201 _ and next to it  _ Rebecca Barnes 54 Middagh St., Brooklyn, NY 11201. _ She studies it a moment longer and feels a tickle at the back of her neck like a puzzle piece falling into a mostly-empty frame. She shakes it off, locks the file away, and hails a cab.

She’s let out in front of a funeral parlor.

She stops with a hand resting on the interior of the cab door and runs through her memories of Barnes. She remembers a few morbid quips and nothing at all about living above a funeral home, but the sign reads  _ Barnes’ Funeral Parlor _ in crisp cream script. She pushes the door open.

Inside, the walls are a clean off-white that matches the awning’s text and the floor a dark green that matches the drapes edging the windows in restrained folds. The room is clean in a way no home is, walls washed and windows speck-free, and there’s something in the solemnity of the room that weighs on her. The last time she was at a funeral –

Footsteps  _ tap-tap-tap _ down unseen stairs and break into her thoughts. The steps cross a short expanse of wood before a young man appears around the corner of the wall far to Peggy’s right. He’s lean and tall with dark curly hair and equally dark eyes, and his expression is sober, if warm. Even jacketless in cuffed sleeves, he exudes professionalism.

“Welcome,” he greats. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here for Rebecca,” she explains. “She invited me for breakfast?”

The change is immediate. His serious demeanor sublimates into an easy grin and warm eyes, shoulders relaxing.

“Oh, you’re Agent Carter!” he says. “Come on up.”

She follows as he turns back the way he came, shoes tapping back up the wooden staircase.

“Sorry, we didn’t get to meet at the wedding, I don’t think,” he says over his shoulder. “Just heard the door and figured it was a customer.”

“No, we didn’t,” she agrees. “Do you often receive customers at eight thirty in the morning?”

He shrugs a shoulder and pushes open the door at the top of the steps.

“Death’s not on a schedule,” he says. “I’m Pat, by the way.”

“Peggy,” she says, accepting his extended hand.

“Pleasure to finally meet you, Peggy,” he says.

He gives her a firm handshake and a boy’s grin, and leads the way into the Barnes’ home.

It is at once a direct recall of the parlor below and an entirely different world. The floor is old hardwood, polished smooth by repeated wear and careful upkeep, and the furniture in the living room is of a similar make if an older model than the set in downstairs. As Pat leads the way into the kitchen, the similarity dissolves.

“-only twenty-one!” a semi-familiar voice protests. “I’m hardly a spinster.”

“I’d had three children and moved across the world by your age,” another replies. “Just look at Miri!”

“Uh-uh, I am  _ not _ getting pulled into this again.”

“C’mon,” Becca says. “It’s breakfast. Not the time to fight.”

“’specially with company,” Pat adds as they enter. “Everyone, this is Peggy Carter.”

The cabinets are white-washed, the checked tile impeccable, but the kitchen’s inhabitants are comfortingly human. Becca’s wrapped in a dark dressing gown, hair slipping out of rollers; Naomi’s in a nightgown with only a cardigan thrown overtop; the sandy-haired man with his arm around Becca wears no shoes; and the girl Peggy doesn’t recognize is swamped in a faded and patched quilt. Peggy feels jarringly out-of-place in her tight curls and angled suit.

“Peggy!” Naomi exclaims, beaming. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I invited her,” Becca says.

She steps out of her husband’s arm and around the table towards Peggy. She’s smiling.

“Here, I’ll take your coat since  _ someone _ didn’t think of that,” she offers.

It’s said with a pointed and joking glare at her brother, and Pat lifts his hands in mock surrender. He’s smiling in a fond way that matches the expressions around the room, and Peggy feels like the first snowfall in an Indian summer – too cold and out of place. She undoes the buttons on her coat cautiously as if they alone hold her in place. Becca whisks her coat and case away.

“Here, sit by me,” Naomi offers.

“That’s my spot,” Pat protests.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Peggy says.

Becca sweeps back in, then, and scoffs. There are eight seats and seven of them, but everyone seems to gravitate naturally to ‘their’ spot with Mrs. Barnes at the head of the table. An empty seat is left between Becca and Pat.

“Oh where are our manners,” Mrs. Barnes says. “I’m Winifred, you’ve met those three, this is our Miriam and that’s Ben, our Becca’s husband.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Peggy says. “James always spoke fondly of you.”

Winifred’s hand grips onto Miriam’s like talons. Miriam had been chattering softly with Naomi; now, their mouths snap shut. Becca’s hand fists on the table, and Pat shoots her a sharp look.

“Yes. Well,” Winifred says stiffly. “Well, here we are letting breakfast go cold. Eat up!”

The family jerks into motion like a wind-up doll stopped mid-step, and there are several minutes of silent chewing before they begin to relax. The pancakes are as good as Becca claimed, soft and rich with buttermilk. As they disappear, the conversation returns.

“Stevie wrote about you quite often, dear,” Winifred says. “I was so glad he’d finally found a nice girl.”

Peggy smiles tightly. She’s used to this, she’s used to this. It doesn’t make it smart any less.

“I always knew he’d find someone, of course,” Winifred adds.

Miriam makes a noise like a strangled laugh. When Peggy looks up, the young woman has her lips pressed together and the corners quirked up as if bemused.

“Mama, that’s not true. You always said he’d be a lifelong bachelor,” she laughs.

“Well, he was so frail,” Winifred says. “Terribly frail but such a big heart. He was nearly a brother to these kids, you know.”

There’s a gentleness in her voice that eases Peggy’s raised hackles. A mother like any other, she supposes: just worried about her boys.

“Only brother I ever beat a fella’ up for,” Becca snorts.

The rest of the table grins and laughs in agreement – except for Winifred. Winifred’s expression tightens.

“He did seem to take issue with running away,” Peggy admits.

“I remember finding him passed out against a trash can,” Miriam says. “Ran all the way to the docks for help, and the whole way home he kept sayin’ how he was fine and didn’t need any help. We about had to carry him!”

Ben chuckles and glances down at the table before meeting Becca’s eye.

“That time we all went to O’Malley’s?” he prompts.

Becca claps a hand over her mouth as her shoulders collapse in with laughter. Ben grins, triumphant.

“You were white as a ghost,” Becca laughs. “I thought you’d never take me out again!”

“Wait, you never told us about that,” Naomi says accusingly.

Becca shares a conspirational glance with Ben, the corners of her smile peeking out behind her hand. His grin mirrors hers, but she shakes her head. Peggy watches, curious.

“Just Steve being Steve,” Ben says.

Winifred sniffs and neatens her flatware briskly.

“He was a good kid,” she says. “He fought for the same reasons he died for.”

Her gaze is narrowed towards Becca, and for a moment, Becca turns hard blue eyes back on her. Ben folds a hand over Becca’s fist and pulls them both under the table. Becca’s jaw is still clenched tight enough to shatter her teeth.

The conversation grinds after that, like grit in gears’ teeth. It briefly settles on Pat’s classes at City College, then Miriam’s plans for dinner this coming week, then Naomi’s new work suit. Becca stays tight-lipped and silent. 

Once they finish, the younger siblings jump to clean the table, and Ben leans over to murmur something in Becca’s ear that makes her glance away with pursed lips. He hesitates a moment before kissing the crown of her head and moving to help clean as well.

“I could use some air,” Becca says, standing. “Peggy?”

She leads the way to the fire escape outside the living room, and Peggy follows when Becca ducks out through the window. Outside, Becca fishes a pack of cigarettes out of her robe pocket and leans against the rail. The pack’s full though the corners are worn soft. As if an afterthought, she tips the pack questioningly towards Peggy.

“Thank you, but I don’t smoke,” Peggy demurs.

“Yeah, me neither.”

They stand in silence for a few moments. True to her word, Becca doesn’t light the cigarette; she flips it end-to-end and back again and stares unseeing at the street below. Peggy watches her and the small white baton twirling in her hands.

“Sorry about in there,” Becca finally says. “Usually keep the skeletons in the cupboard till lunch at least.”

It’s said self-deprecatingly, like she should know better. Peggy hums in acknowledgment before leaning against the thin railing beside her. Cars pass occasionally, but this is a quiet street.

“I take it your mother will be visiting the new memorial,” she says.

The bark of laughter Becca gives is ugly and brittle.

“Shrine, you mean,” she corrects.

Peggy inclines her head slightly. In question is the newly erected Captain Steven G. Rogers Memorial Park – a tiny plot of land within Cypress Hill Cemetery mostly consumed by a mammoth block of marble. The effigy on top is more a caricature than true likeness.

“Stevie Rogers was a damned punk,” Becca bites out. “He was one of the best men I knew, but he was no saint. Not on these streets and sure as hell not overseas.”

Peggy presses her lips together while she looks for words.

“My brother wouldn’t’ve made it with a saint,” Becca mutters before she can.

Peggy opens her mouth, closes it again.

“I noticed your mother-” she starts.

“Can’t bear a certain five-letter word?” Becca finishes.

She shakes her head, hand closing around the cigarette.

“It’s a stupid damn rule,” she says. “Dad kicked him out when he was nineteen, said he couldn’t come back till he decided to ‘be a man.’ Didn’t matter that he died a fucking war hero.”

Peggy flinches. Becca’s tone is sharp as ice and meant to cut. Who she’s aiming for, though, Peggy can’t say.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

She rests her hand gently on Becca’s shoulder uncertainly. She grew up with a distant but supportive grandmother who let her learn to shoot and drive as long as she also learned a lady’s graces. This turmoil is something she’s never seen up close. It sets her bones jittering under her skin.

Becca shudders and leans into the touch.

“S’not your fault,” she mutters before giving a wet laugh. “I swear, I’m not usually a crier.”

“Me neither,” Peggy admits, “but sometimes it’s called for.”

Sniffing, Becca gives a tight smile and wipes at her cheeks.

“What was he like?” Peggy asks on impulse. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Bucky? Oh, god,” Becca says.

She pauses a moment to collect her thoughts, and her hand goes back to twirling the cigarette. After a moment, she shakes her head with a little smile.

“He was smart,” she says. “I mean, you probably didn’t see it, but he was top of his class every year – could speak half a dozen languages by the time he could walk and there wasn’t a science article he hadn’t read.”

That, at least, is something Peggy remembers: most snipers carried a small book for calculations. Barnes had a similar book, but more of its pages were torn out or filled with Steve’s doodles than calculus. Despite that, he was the best shot she’d ever known. 

“Mama used to say he had a gypsy heart – never able to settle down in case he was missing something somewhere else,” Becca continues. “It was the same way with girls – he was always real sweet on them, but they never stuck around. I could never tell if he picked ‘em up ‘cause they were pretty or ‘cause they got on well.”

She pauses again, worrying at her lip. When she continues, her gaze is down on the street.

“I know you didn’t see him like we did,” she admits, subdued. “War changes everyone, and Buck was no different. He tried to hide it – fake it – but he never could lie to me.”

She scoffs a little at herself.

“And now I’m bragging,” she says. 

Despite herself, Peggy smiles faintly. She drops her hand from Becca’s shoulder and leans into the rail beside her. 

“I didn’t know him as well as I should have,” she admits. “James was always the last of the Commandos to speak to me, and frankly, it always seemed an unbridgeable gap. I think, in hindsight, we were both rather jealous of Steve’s attentions.”

She’s not ready for the way Becca’s face crumples and she so clearly bites the inside of her bottom lip. There’s something there she’s missing, and that empty frame drives her a little mad.

“He was the only one able to really handle Howard, though,” she continues after a beat. “He isn’t the easiest man to get along with, but James – I remember looking for them once only to find them trying to get some radio show to come in. We’d been searching for hours and the whole time they’d been camped on the roof.”

She can still picture them: Howard with one sleeve rolled to his elbow and the other flapping loose and James with a streak of grease across his forehead and a bright, childish grin. It was, she thinks now, one of the few times she saw him truly happy.

“Probably  _ Suspense _ ,” Becca laughs. “He was hooked on it.”

The name means nothing, but the fond exasperation in Becca’s voice is clear. Peggy’s lips pull in a small smile. 

Before she can say any more, Ben pokes his head out the window. His gaze pauses on the cigarette pack before turning to Becca.

“Winifred wants to know if you’re staying here today,” he says.

Becca looks down at the cigarette she’s back to flipping for a moment before tucking it back into the pack. As she straightens, it vanishes somewhere into her robe. She smiles, only a little fake.

“Wasn’t I going to clean the cupboards at home today?” she replies.

Ben gives her an unreadable look before turning back into the house. Becca smiles, small and private, before turning to Peggy.

“I really am sorry about this,” she says. “We wanted so much to give you an American family, and here I ruin it.”

“No, I – I don’t mind,” Peggy replies hastily.

She pauses, picking her words carefully.

“I wish – I didn’t know your brother well,” she says, “but I would quite like to know you, and if you’re willing – well, I would be grateful for an ‘American family.’”

It’s not quite what she meant to say, but she can’t think of anything better. Can’t think of a way to tell Becca that she’s right, that war changes everyone but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still themself, that Peggy has been alone for so long that she forgot she didn’t have to be, that a family is exactly what she needs in this nation of hauntings. She doesn’t have the words to say all that, so she makes do with something less.

Becca’s lips spread in a slow smile, and she ducks her head before glancing up at Peggy through her lashes.

“Well, then,” she says. “Welcome to the family.”

There’s a warmth from the reception that bubbles into her bones again, but this time it settles as if it means to stay. 

She can feel it all the long drive back to DC and even as she walks down their hallway. Inside, she wraps her arms around Angie and presses her nose against her neck.

“Tough trip?” Angie asks.

She shifts a little to lay her book down on the end table beside her, and Peggy breathes in slowly. Angie’s perfume always rests just above her skin like an overcoat of lilacs.

“Good trip,” she says. “I should have taken you with me, though. We could’ve stayed and seen your family.”

Angie snorts and twists around in Peggy’s arms to kiss her. She runs her fingers lightly over Peggy’s curls and then leans back to nod towards their bedroom. 

“C’mon. I can think of a few things more fun on a Saturday night than seeing the folks,” she says.

Peggy grins and follows.


	2. Chapter 2

_ 1950 _

_ Washington, D.C. _

“I don’t want to get up,” Peggy groans into Angie’s collarbone.

Beneath her, Angie shakes a little with sleepy laughter, and she shifts to bring her arms in a loose circle around Peggy’s bare shoulders. Peggy nestles closer, letting her eyes fall shut once again. 

“I got the day off,” Angie says.

_ If only it was that easy,  _ Peggy thinks in frustration. She hasn’t taken a holiday in the four years since SHIELD began; even the breakfasts she’s managed to catch with the Barneses have only been because she was in town for business. Here, warm in the gentle wrap of Angie’s arms, it is a syrup-sweet temptation but one she can’t accept. 

“What do you have in mind if I were to stay?” she asks.

It’s a little cruel, perhaps, but imagining is the closest she’ll get today. Angie snuggles closer, resting her chin on Peggy’s head. Peggy can’t see her, but she can tell she’s almost awake now.

“Sleep, first,” Angie announces. “Then...exercise.”

Peggy snorts, shoulders twitching with laughter. Angie holds out for a moment longer, but soon, she’s giggling, too. She slaps lightly at Peggy’s shoulder, but it’s futile.

“Exercise?” Peggy demands.

She’s breathless with laughter, and Angie groans, throwing a hand over her face.

“Shuddup, it’s early,” she protests.

Peggy rises onto her elbow for a better view, and Angie peeks out from under her fingers. Her expression is expectant and a little rueful. There’s a chance Peggy will come home at a reasonable time, but it’s more likely that this morning is all they’ll have of each other’s day.

“I need to get ready,” Peggy says.

“Okay,” Angie replies.

Peggy hesitates a moment longer before leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of Angie’s lips. Angie smiles in reflex, and Peggy moves to press kisses down her neck as well.

“Mm, Pegs,” Angie murmurs when Peggy’s reached her collarbones. “You’re gonna be late, and I’m not gonna be held accountable.”

Peggy sighs, relents, and finally kisses Angie’s lips before sitting up. Angie gives her a smile and squeezes her hand.

“You know I hate leaving you,” Peggy starts.

“I know,” Angie says.

It’s enough for Peggy to heave herself to her feet and start her morning routine. Angie watches for a few moments before curling up on her side and falling back to sleep. Before she applies her lipstick, Peggy leans in to press a kiss on Angie’s forehead. Angie doesn’t stir, but her lips curl in a smile.

When she reaches the office, it’s already abuzz. She pauses a moment in the doorway, watching the agents on the phone, digging through files, debriefing in one of the three interrogation rooms. SHIELD has grown from an idea into one of the largest intelligence networks in the world, and they’ve only begun. She allows herself a smile and closes the door to her office.

An hour later, Howard bursts in.

“Russia’s got a ghost,” he declares, dropping a file hard on her desk.

She very deliberately finishes the ‘r’ she was writing and caps her pen before turning to him. Over the years, she’s discovered few more effective methods of getting Howard to organize his thoughts before rambling off half-cocked.

“Russia has plenty of ghosts,” she says.

“Yeah, but this one’s got a gun and he shoots to kill,” Howard replies. “Gaitan? al-Banna? Him.”

He flips open the file and pushes it towards Peggy, poking at one photo. She hums noncommittally and peels it out from under his finger. The photo’s grainy and distorted as if expanded far past its resolution. All that’s really clear is the stark outline of a pale arm and a messy blur of hair. The man’s face is completely hidden.

“Where was this taken?” she asks.

“French Indochina,” Howard says. “Dien Bien Phu.” 

Howard drops into the chair opposite her and shoves his hands into his pants pockets. Peggy flips through the rest of the file: three sheets and the photo are all that is inside.

“Your Russian have anything?” she asks.

It’s mostly rhetorical; Howard’s mole, an anonymous Russian scientist, is hardly forthcoming. It’s perhaps the most consistent source of friction between the two of them, right after his priorities; despite being co-director, SHIELD has never beat money to the top of that list.

“He doesn’t have a lot,” Howard hedges, “but he did say he’s heard of the - uh ‘Winter Soldier.’ Seemed pretty spooked.”

“Poetic name for a hitman,” Peggy remarks. “How spooked?”

“Thought I was trying to burn him,” Howard says. “Apparently it’s top-level.”

Peggy frowns, studying the grainy photo. She taps at it with the end of her pen as if that will shake something loose from the black-and-white noise. In the center of the pale arm is a five-pointed blur. If she squints, it almost looks like a star.

“What’s this?” she asks. “Sleeve, armor?”

Howard leans over the desk to get a better view. After a moment, he shakes his head.

“If that’s metal, it’s too small to be a covering,” he says and points to the other arm. “Look, they’re about the same size. Metal armor - it’d be big, bulky.”

“So, you’re saying he has a metal arm,” Peggy says.

She stares at him in flat disbelief, but Howard only shrugs and straightens up.

“It’s the only option,” he says.

“The only-” she starts only to break off with a shake of her head. “Has there been any other mention of him?”

Howard shrugs, hands still in his pockets. He’s wearing an odd expression, unwontedly withdrawn. 

“Are you alright, Howard?” she asks.

“What? Yeah, it’s just-” 

He breaks off and scrubs a hand back through his hair.

“The way he talked about him, it’s like he’s a ghost - like he can pass through walls to get to his target,” he explains. “I don’t know if we can catch this guy.”

Peggy thinks of a long-healed concussion, of a smile that cut like glass. Dead men don’t walk; ghosts don’t kill.

“Ghosts aren’t real, Howard,” she says. “This is the work of a man. We’ll catch him.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced.

She doesn’t blame him. Though she said it like fact, it feels somehow hollow. It feels like running down a dark hallway and never reaching the light.

\------

Artefacts are crawling up from its coding daily now. It can’t push them away, even though it knows it should: Control doesn’t like artefacts. He burns them away with white fire.

_ “What about you, Sarge? Got a firecracker back home, don’t ya’?” Dum-Dum prompts. _

_ His stomach twists, tightens, sinks. He covers with a lazy grin. _

_ “Lemme’ guess: total bombshell with a rack to die for and gams a mile long,” a private pitches in. _

_ “Please,” scoffs the kid on his left. “Sarge with just one gal? You’re sellin’ him short. Bet he’s got a waiting list.” _

_ The men scoff and laugh. They add to the details of his Brooklyn harem with raucous glee, and he lets them fill in his silence with their own ideas. _

_ “Really, what’s she like?” Dum-Dum presses under the chatter. “I’ve seen you with those letters.” _

_ He should just admit that they’re from his friend, his roommate - but - but he’s wet and tired and he hasn’t been warm since he got the latest letter in the post. Maybe just this once he can indulge himself, treat himself to this little lie. He’s been lying for everyone else for long enough. _

_ “Fine, Nosy,” he laughs before leaning back on his palms. “She’s - she’s a total spitfire. Looks like a strong wind would blow her over - hell, it sometimes does - but she’ll take on anyone. Scares the hell outta’ me.” _

_ Dum-Dum grins, a sliver of white in the firelight. He can’t help smiling a little, too. It’s easy like this, when no one’s there to check his story. _

_ “She’s real small, y’know?” he adds. “But she’s got a heart the size of Russia. Makes me feel like a damn coward half the time.” _

_ There’s a huff of air as Dum-Dum scoffs and cuffs him lightly. He doesn’t protest, even though it’s true. He’s a yellower coward than a goddamn garter snake. _

_ “You ever tell this gal you’re gone on her?” Dum-Dum asks. _

_ He thinks of sneaking in through the window with missed homework, of promising to be there to the end of the line, of staying up all night when the pneumonia’s real bad, of praying to a god he’s not sure he believes in anymore. _

_ “Nah,” he laughs. “Coward, remember?” _

\------

Dottie Underwood is a name of the past, Peggy knows well, but she can't help but think of her whenever they find these bases. She presses at the scratches on a metal bed frame and thinks of handcuffs, of  _ Snow White _ . When does a little girl become a weapon? When does a weapon become a monster?

They still don't have answers for these. They're called ‘Red Room’ in the intelligence, but all they know about them, really, is that they're training bases - nurseries for the Russians’ murder weapons. It feels bigger than that, though, like there are tendrils sunk underground that lead to a source buried too deep for them to see. 

“Hey, Carter!” Morita calls. “We got something weird.”

She follows his voice to the next-door room and finds some sort of cell-block. One wall is lined with black bars and bare floors, and stairs lead to a room above them. She follows them up to find Morita and a younger agent standing by a large control panel. A massive window takes up the wall in front of the panel; looking through it, she can only see a bare concrete space with a streaks of something darker across the walls and floor.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Don't know,” Morita admits. “Didn't want to press any buttons without knowing what they meant.”

She nods, irrationally grateful for the logic of this. She's been spending too much time with Howard.

The labels are Russian, but she's been learning. She's had to. She looks over them - ‘On,’ ‘Light No. 1,’ ‘Fan No. 1’ - and pauses at the levers. These are numbered one through thirteen in the same font as the rest, but a few are different: beneath the lever is a strip of tape with writing in black marker. It looks hasty, as if the writer was in a rush to make sure the labels were done. On the first is ‘Widow,’ then ‘Ursa,’ and then ‘Soldier.’ She stops with her fingers over the last.

“The soldier,” she repeats under her breath.

It tickles at the back of her neck. She frowns down at the label and then throws the switch. There’s creaking and clanging, and the last cell door slides open. A panel in the room before them opens, too, directly in front of the gate. 

In secondary school, Peggy went to Italy with a few friends. They spent most their days enjoying the sunshine and attention of an Italian summer, but they spent one evening exploring the newly-excavated Colosseum. With the late afternoon light spilling gold over the old stones, it had been easy to imagine it full and roaring with spectators and gladiators.

Thirty years later, she feels a similar sense of displacement in a concrete base in Russia. 

“It’s not a prison,” she says. “It’s an execution ring.”

“For who?” the younger agent asks.

Morita’s shifted to look at the ring, now, and his expression settles to something closed-off. As she reexamines it, Peggy sees red in the dark streaks over the concrete. It’s not just dirt; it’s blood.

“Whoever isn’t strong enough to make it back out,” he says.

The younger agent eyes then both, and Peggy pulls herself up along her spine.

“Agent West, go get Agent Johnson. We want everything photographed,” she orders.

He nods and is out the door in seconds. Once he's gone, Peggy inclines her head towards the stairs and both she and Morita head down to the cells. 

“What soldier?” Morita asks as they reach the bottom step.

Peggy glances over.

“Up there, you said ‘the Soldier,’” he says. “What’d you mean?”

“It was under the lever I pulled,” she explains. “I'd like to see that cell.”

He's frowning now but only nods and follows her. They follow a narrow corridor on the other side of the cells and arena. The cells are metal bars here with heavy, empty padlocks dangling from the doors. 

Morita flicks on his torch as they pass the third. Peggy wishes he hadn't: the red isn't limited to the open room. It shows up in patches as they walk, half-washed but still stubbornly remaining. 

Then, they reach the thirteenth cell.

The blood here is thick and dark, like there was too much of it too frequently to bother trying to wash it. The smell lingers, half-rotten. Peggy can't avoid the blood, but she steps carefully to preserve the cell for Johnson’s camera. She stops at the corner farthest from the door.

There's writing on the wall here. It's thick and crude, scratched into the concrete with something dull.  _ A stone, perhaps _ , she thinks as she runs a finger along the letters. Each stroke is about as wide as a man’s forefinger. Together, there are three words:  _ I'm not dead. _ It’s repeated in Russian just below. She pulls her hand away.

“Have we found any archives yet?” she asks.

She wants names, dates. These cells don't ring of choice, and she wants to know what soldier or agent has been kept here.

“Nothing so far,” Morita says. “The closest we've found was that ledger in [whatever place].”

She frowns. Said ledger took them months to break only to find that it was only sets of random numbers matched to another set that might be dates. It's a start, but it's not a big one.

“Anything inside?” Morita asks.

He's still standing on the threshold, wavering like he can't quite make himself enter. Peggy nearly winces at the wash of guilt that hits her. Of course Morita doesn't want to come inside a prison cell; he did his time in the war.

“Only some graffiti,” she says. “I'll have Johnson photograph it.”

She hesitates before adding, gently as she can, “It appears the inhabitants weren't volunteers.” 

Morita looks away down the hall, then down at his boots. After a muffled curse, he steps inside. He's wound tight as razor wire.

“Fuck,” he says, looking at the writing by Peggy.

She agrees but turns to look at the rest of the walls. There's more writing around the room, though those three words are the most deeply scored. She finds snatches: the stalk of either a ‘T’ or ‘J,’ the faint curves of ‘55,’ and a haphazard tally. 

The last makes her pause. It starts out neat and precise only to, six lines in, become faint and wobbly. Then, straight marks for ten lines before it collapses again. There are frequent spaces between the two styles, as if the maker wasn't sure how many days had passed. She counts them, only including the ones she's sure were intentional.

“One hundred and thirteen days,” she says, “at least.”

Morita winces and pops his cap off his head to run a hand over his hair.

“No wonder they were writing this shit,” he says.

“Do you recognize…?” she starts before realizing how inane a question it is.

Morita still laughs, and turns to her with raised brows.

“Do I recognize the crazy scratches on a prison wall?” he asks.

He drops the grin and shakes his head a little.

“We mostly had bars, so there wasn’t much space. And” - he hesitates before continuing - “And Sarge was damn sure none of his men were going to go crazy. Said he wouldn’t give those ‘fucking squid Nazis’ the satisfaction.”

There’s a great, collective gap in the records of the 163 men rescued from Azzano in Steve Rogers’ desperate ploy. They all debriefed, and it would have seemed enough if it weren’t for the way their eyes always slid to Sergeant Barnes and their loyalty swung as unerringly to him as a compass needle to north. It was if every one of them down to the last man owed him a debt.

She knows, even now, that Morita won’t tell her if she asks.

“Squid Nazis?” she prompts instead as they move to leave the cell.

“We didn’t know what else to call ‘em,” Morita says with a shrug. “Dum-Dum came up with it.”

She’s not surprised.

\------

They bring it men, sometimes. To train, to kill, to be beaten by. It is good at the first two. It can hit every target they bring it, no matter how quickly they run, and it can instruct with brutal efficiency.

The third is a problem. When they make it strip down and kneel as they hit it,  _ he _ comes out. He is anger and irrationality, and he breaks their neck before it can stop him. 

It hates him.

\------

Sousa joins them once they’re back. Technically, he’s the liaison to the FBI, but he still likes to help with cases when he can. Peggy is fairly sure it’s how he survives working with Thompson again.

“So these are agents, right?” Sousa says.

“Probably,” Morita hedges.

They’re looking over the ledger again, trying to scrape any clues from its black-and-white lines. It’s a guessing game at best, but it’s all they have to work with.

“If these are dates,” Peggy says, pointing to the top row, “then some of them match roughly with assassinations we’ve recorded. If they aren’t, well.”

“We’re back to square one,” Sousa surmises.

Morita gives a grunt of agreement and scoots his chair in closer to the table. They’ve been going back and forth over this for the last hour, trying to add it to their intel from Unezhma and come up with something. So far, they only have more questions.

“Has decryption come up with anything?” Sousa asks.

Morita snorts and ruffles through the thin file to a packet near the bottom. There’s a copy of the ledger too, diligently hand-printed by some unfortunate agent, but their focus is on the dog-eared original. 

Morita pulls out the packet and passes it to Sousa, who skims through all thirty pages with increasing disbelief.

“Crikes,” he finally manages.

Peggy suppresses a laugh. The information in the ledger is just enough to provide roots for a hundred different theories and not a single solid lead. Sousa passes it back to Morita with a shake of his head.

“Well, this is a mess,” he says.

Flipping through the packet, Morita nods without looking up, and Peggy leans back in her chair. It’s nearly five, and there’s no point staying past hours to poke at a mystery that refuses to resolve. They’ll be better off coming at it in the morning with clearer heads.

“The soldier,” Morita mutters.

Peggy stiffens.

“What did you say?” she asks.

“The soldier. Look,” Morita says, point to a line on the sixteenth page. “One of the possibilities for that code is ‘the soldier’ - just like Unezhma.”

It’s printed there in neat type-set, followed by two others she recognizes: ‘ursa’ and ‘widow.’

“Who’s The Soldier?” Sousa asks.

Peggy shakes her head. She’s not going home just yet, apparently.

“I need to speak with Howard.”

\------

It’s an off-day, one where the asset is wobbling along the edge of a knife. The artefacts have been insistent, insidious. It’s restless, itching with the need to move, to fight, to get out, and these men are little more than gnats to be incapacitated within three easy breaths. It stands, unmatched fists by its sides, and it  _ wants. _

Beyond the training ring, technicians huddle in nervous, flustered flocks, but Control sits placid and pale in the middle of them. His only expression is appraisal, his glasses enlarging beady grey eyes.  _ Like a fucking opossum, _ the voice mutters - but the asset doesn’t recognize the word, can make no connection between Control and this foreign object. 

The itch increases, and the asset burns with sudden hatred for the man whose body it wears. What right does this ghost have to endanger HYDRA’s work? Why can’t he just burn away?

“How many was that? Five?” Control sniffs. “Send in ten.”

Three are guards from outside the door with their rifles removed. They carry pistols and combat knives. The other seven carry mixed weapons - bare hands to garrots.

They come first with empty hands, trying to take the asset down with human force. It would be laughable if the asset knew how to laugh. It ducks under one guard’s arm, grabs the gun from his hip. Shot to the back, another to the next guard’s face. An elbow from the left arm to another’s throat. That one isn’t dead; it stamps down on his throat. 

Technicians are yelling in the background. It keeps moving. Another headshot, straight through the man’s forehead.

_ “Damn, Buck.” An appreciative tone, a strange mix of awe and sadness –  _

No. Bypass.

Three minutes and twenty-five seconds, and they’re down. 

Mission report: six fatal shots, three crushed throats, one compound fracture of the skull.

It turns, pistol in hand. Four technicians, four shots. 

Control hasn’t moved. He sits, hands clasped neatly over the polished handle of his cane, and he watches it with those chilly grey eyes.

“Are you quite done?” he asks.

One shot. The muzzle is lined perfectly with his domed forehead. One twitch, and he’s dead.  _ Just fucking shoot the bastard. _ The asset lowers its arm.

“Good. Now clean this mess up,” Control orders.

The gun drops to the ground with a muted thud. It turns and kneels to scoop up the first of fourteen corpses. Its eyes do not stray to the discarded gun and its one unused bullet.

\------

“You’re saying - what, our hitman speaks English and  _ is a prisoner? _ ” Howard demands.

Peggy shakes her head slightly. Her curls are starting to come loose and few of the lower ones bounce against her shoulders with the motion.

“I’m saying it doesn’t add up,” she says. “Something’s missing.”

Howards leans back in his chair and rubs at his chin.

“It could just be a Russian who didn’t know what they were getting into,” he says.

Peggy frowns, eyes narrowing.

“That is the obvious answer,” she agrees, “but it wasn’t your first.”

This time, Howard grimaces. He looks away, as if to distance himself from the conversation. At first, she can’t tell why.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Howard-” she starts, but he waves a hand to forestall her.

“It’s just - what if it isn’t?” he asks. “You remember when you got jumped two years ago, came back asking about Barnes? I looked into it.”

Peggy can feel cold creeping spider-like up her spine. She doesn’t want to hear what he has to say.

“It was a through-and-through. Shoulda’ killed him,” Howard says. “Instead, it healed up in two weeks.”

“A bullet is rather different than a thousand foot drop,” she says.

He deflates a little.

“I know,” he admits. “I’m just saying: if Schmidt got that close to Erskine’s serum in ‘43, imagine where the Russians could be by now.”

It’s a cold picture, and Peggy swallows hard at the thought. She knows the thought process that would make an administration test on prisoners instead of volunteers, and she can think of plenty of reasons to stop after one trial: maintenance, supervision, unmanageable side effects. If they’re right, she feels an uncomfortable amount of pity for the hitman.

“So we prioritize live capture rather than elimination,” she suggests. “The ultimate goal is to take him off the board, but extreme prejudice will only be used when the alternatives have failed.”

She pushes her chair back and finally lets herself rub at her tired eyes. She’s careful not to smudge the day-old mascara.

“I’ll submit a statement in the morning,” she says and stands.

Her hand’s around the doorknob when Howard calls out.

“Hey, Pegs,” he says. “You ever think we’ll get away from their ghosts?”

She thinks of the Commandos’ easy laughter, of Pat’s friendly grin. She thinks of Morita in the prison cell and Becca against the fire escape railing.

“No,” she says and steps out the door.

It’s a long walk to their apartment, and she’s cold by the time she arrives. The radio’s on in the kitchen, and Peggy finds Angie in there, cooking. She slides her arms around Angie’s waist before bothering to take off her coat.

“Hey, Peg,” Angie says.

“Hello,” Peggy replies and hooks her chin over Angie’s shoulder.

Angie sways a little to the music while she stirs, and after a few moments she starts to sing along.

“ _ I’m aware _ ,” she sings, “ _ my heart is a sad affair _ ... _ but I can dream, can’t I? _ ”

As the Andrews Sisters wind down to their close, Peggy pulls away to slide her coat off and hang it on the rack. Behind her, the radio has switched into some upbeat new tune. She doesn’t recognize it, but Angie picks up quickly. The apartment fills with the polyphonic harmony as she toes off her pumps and hangs her hat over her coat.

Dinner is quiet: soup in silence with the radio turned low so only the faintest strains reach them. Angie doesn’t press at Peggy’s quiet, and they pick up in silence as well. It’s only as Peggy places the last dish in the drying rack and hangs up the dishtowel that Angie makes a move.

She tugs on Peggy’s hand and catches her as Peggy turns, one hand firm on Peggy’s lower back and the other closed gently over Peggy’s hand. Peggy smiles and settles in close. They only sway for a few minutes, small shifts of weight that loosen the muscles in Peggy’s shoulders and back.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been terribly rude,” she says as the song changes. “How was your day?”

Silently, she hopes Angie doesn’t turn it back on her. She’s not sure she’ll be able to keep from spilling the day’s secrets. She’s so very tired.

“Well, Mrs. Ganders was back in,” Angie starts with the air of a storyteller. “And let me tell you, that beau of hers sure isn’t hiding anything.”

She raises her eyebrows significantly, and Peggy can’t help the smile that breaks across her face. As Angie describes the daily drama of the diner, Peggy softens into her arms and tries to capture this moment to keep. If she could, she thinks, she would live in Billie Holiday’s croon and Angie’s arms. 

She can’t, of course; she’s painfully aware. This is the end of an era, and she can feel it slipping just out of reach.

“ _ Stop haunting me now, can’t shake you no how...” _

\------

“Soldier, report status.”

_ Fucking freezing _ , it doesn’t say. The asset does not use colloquial speech.

“Status: preliminary symptoms of frostnip apparent in extremities. Preliminary frostbite at juncture of metal arm and at contact point between left knee and metal arm,” it answers.

There’s muffled noise on the other end of the communications apparatus, and it waits. After a moment, there’s a heavy sigh.

“ _ Дерьмо _ _ , _ ” the agent swears. “How long have you been out there, Soldier?”

“Three hours and twenty-seven minutes,” it answers.

The agent at the other end swears again, but the quality is different. Instead of exasperation, there’s an underlying awe.

“I’ll never be used to that,” he mutters.

The asset blinks but does not comment. Accurate estimation of time is integral to the asset’s function. It was programmed to be exact.

Snow is beginning to accumulate on its bare arms and dark hair. It melts, drips down its naked torso, and its dark hair sticks to its forehead. It’s been snowing for forty-six minutes and twelve seconds. 

When the first flake fell, it had reached out a hand, palm-up. The snowflake had been small, tightly intricate, and it had melted almost instantly. It had been struck with the strange urge to tilt its head back, exposing its cheeks to the snow. It was a tactically unsound decision, and it had quickly pulled its hand back around its right knee. It did not move as the flakes caught in its lashes and melted. 

The feeling of water running down its cheeks seems familiar, but it can’t say why.

\------

Peggy starts at the light rap of knuckles against her door. She jerks her hand up from the report she’s reading and only barely misses making a massive streak of black ink across the type.

“Sorry,” Sousa says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s quite alright,” she says. “Come in.”

He limps in and stops with his free hand on the back of the chair opposite her.

“I know you’re the director and all, but some of the older agents are going out for dinner. Wanted to see if you wanted to come,” he says.

She caps her pen slowly. She’s meant to meet Angie tonight, but - but they’ve had a few hard conversations recently. It’s time to make a change.

“I’d enjoy that,” she says. “Might I bring a friend along?”

His face falls minutely before it’s rescued by a smile.  _ Oh, Daniel _ , she thinks and hides a smile of her own.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Five thirty, China Café.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she promises.

After he’s made his excuses, Peggy reaches for the phone and dials the diner’s number. It rings twice before it’s picked up.

“Jenner’s Sandwich Shop, how can I help you?” Angie’s voice greets.

It’s sugar-sweet and overly bright.

“Hello, darling,” Peggy greets.

Angie laughs, delighted, and the fake voice vanishes.

“Hello yourself, sugar,” she says, quieter. “What’s up?”

“How do you feel about dinner with some of my colleagues?” Peggy asks.

There’s a startled breath on the other end.

“Your collea- yes,” Angie stammers. “I mean, I feel good about it.”

“I’ll pick you up at five,” Peggy says with a smile.

They hang up, and then it’s only two more hours till the end of the day. Peggy files away the reports she’s been reading and twists the key in the lock before shutting off the lights. It’s the first time she can remember leaving on time, and it’s jarring to find the bullpen still full as she closes and locks her office door. She tries not to think about it.

Angie’s waiting by the curb when she pulls up, and Peggy pulls in a startled breath as Angie hurries to the car with a smile. She’s wearing a green dress that hits her at all the right places and a matching cap perched on the back of her head. She looks stunning.

“I’m not sure I’m up for dinner anymore,” Peggy admits when Angie’s closed the door.

Angie snorts and backhands Peggy’s shoulder lightly. She’s smiling.

“Come on, I gotta put my best foot forward to meet your mysterious coworkers,” she says.

There’s another reason, too, but it’s left thankfully unspoken.

They reach the diner just a few minutes past and park on the neighboring block. Inside, it’s easy to find their group: the men are a lively bunch. From across the room, Peggy can make out Howard’s voice.

“Pegs!” he calls as they reach the table. “And Angie! It’s been a while, sweetheart.”

Angie flushes as the party’s eyes turn to her. She lifts her hand in a little wave and sits in the chair pulled out for her. It’s strategically located: between two men Peggy dimly recognizes and one away from being directly across from Peggy. 

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” she says.

“Howard, sweetheart,” he corrects magnanimously.

Dinner stretches an hour, then two. By the time they spill onto the dark streets, it’s begun to snow. They say goodbye with smiles and goodnatured complaints about the late-season snow. Angie hooks her arm through Peggy’s and nestles into her shoulder. They could easily be two young roommates headed home after a double date.

“We could do it, y’know,” Angie remarks as they head down the block. “I could marry a fella from the phone company, you marry that Daniel, we could be the crazy aunt to each other’s kids. We could do it.”

“You don’t fancy men,” Peggy points out.

“And you don’t fancy brunets,” Angie shoots back.

Peggy laughs and leans into Angie’s shoulder a little more. Angie’s hair is hardly Steve’s pure gold, but then, it wasn’t hair that drew them together.

“I swear, though, you could ask that boy to get the moon for you and all he’d say would be ‘Yes, ma’am,’” Angie muses. “You have that effect on Rogers, too?”

“Well, he did like orders,” Peggy says.

Angie stops abruptly, eyes wide with surprise. She stares at Peggy for a moment, and Peggy raises her eyebrows in innocent question. Angie cracks.

“Christ on a cracker,” she chokes out. “Y’can’t just say that in public!”

Peggy smiles sweetly and steers them to the car.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

Angie snorts but lets her have it. It’s a short drive back to their apartment, and once they get there, Peggy parks and pauses. She keeps her eyes on the steering wheel, her hands still gripped tight around it.

“I would - I would be quite glad if we could remain ‘crazy aunts,’” she says.

Angie’s hand closes around Peggy’s wrist and her thumb rubs a gentle circle against her skin.

“You know I’d rather stay with you,” she says.

“I know,” Peggy says and leans over to kiss her.

It’s just a chaste press to her cheek, like two friends saying goodbye.

\------

He’s trapped.

He doesn’t know - can’t remember - how long they’ve had him. He remembers a saw to his arm, remembers icy wet soaking into his back, remembers - remembers Steve’s outstretched hand getting smaller, smaller, gone. 

He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t break the flat mouth and empty stare that feel newly natural on his face. They can’t know. They’ll burn it and strip it from him till he’s just a shell again.

He has to escape, has to find Steve, get them both the hell out of there. 

He waits.

\------

It’s Daniel who tells her. There’s something poetic about that, she thinks bleakly. She’s not sure she can appreciate it at the moment.

“I didn’t want you just to find out on the street,” he explains.

His free hand curls and uncurls with nerves, and she notes the habit absently. Her gaze was first arrested by the newspaper’s frank headline, but now she takes the time to skim the text itself. Florid descriptions of the Commandos’ exploits, a brief comment on Barnes’ death. A life summed up in black and white.

“Thank you,” she says.

She meets his eyes when she says it and offers a small smile. He relaxes a little, but there’s a set to his shoulders like he saw her first flash of surprise and braced for hurt that never came. 

“I just,” he starts, stops, starts again, “I just thought you should know.”

She sets the paper down on her desk and smooths out the wrinkles with a hand.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” she says, “but Steve Rogers died five years ago. I - I miss him. Awfully.”

A smile quirks her lips of its own accord. It’s a little self-deprecating, if she’s honest with herself. She’s spent so much time fighting to be more than Captain America’s sweetheart, and yet her heart has never fully let go of the man behind the cowl. She doesn’t imagine it ever will.

“But I cannot spend my life mourning,” she finishes.

She stands and steps carefully around her desk, plucking a file off the corner as she goes.

“Now, weren’t we going to go over that debrief from our favorite G-man?” she prompts.

Something shifts in Daniel’s expression, but he recovers quickly and moves to hold the door open. She lets him.

“‘Favorite’ is a strong word,” he quips.

He matches her stride as they walk to the conference room, and like an echo, she thinks  _ We could do this. _

\------

He’s running.

They’re going to catch him.

They can’t. He has to get out. Has to find Steve. Has to get  _ out _ .

His feet pound against the concrete, echoing loud in the corridor. Doesn’t matter - hallway only goes one way. They know where he is.

They’re going to catch him.

The arm at his side is heavy, pulling on him like a sandbag. He forces it backward and releases it forward and tries to make it help. It doesn’t, not really. He keeps going, though, breath coming short and sharp.

They’re going to catch him.

He’s at street level now, bursting out of the front door, and he’ll be fine now. He just has to blend in, duck into the crowd. It’s nothing to steal a coat; they won’t notice another dark- haired man walking the streets. He slides in amongst the throng, earning plenty of looks for walking through snow without a shirt on. He doesn’t feel it. 

The guards will be out any minute, once they’ve regained consciousness and stumbled onto fractured legs. He grabs a coat draped over a cafe’s chair, the coffee still steaming into the winter air. Tugs it on, fixes up the buttons as he ducks his head and stalks along the sidewalk. He snaps out the paper he snagged from the table at the same time, ducking into a slight, brick-walled alcove, and lifts it to reading height. 

He stops.

_ Капитан Америка объявлен погибнувшим в бою _

They catch him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crying softly bc i had pages and pages of research and notes for this and apparently i deleted the file at some point FFF


	3. Chapter 3

_ 1955 _

_ New York City _

Peggy flicks the paper over with a shake of her head. There’s a whole section on a new apartment building and nothing on Bulganin’s appointment. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised; New Yorkers aren’t quite as hungry for news of the Soviets as SHIELD is.

“Any good news?” Becca asks.

“A grandmother was named ‘Christian Layperson of the Year,’” Peggy offers.

Becca snorts and continues layering foundation over the corpse’s face with a careful hand.

“What about your family? Anything exciting?” Peggy asks.

Daniel’s flight doesn’t get in till the afternoon, but she’d dropped in early to visit - only to find the house eerily empty. The rest of the family was out of town, Becca had explained.  _ I wouldn’t mind some company, though, _ she’d added with a small smile.

Now, Peggy’s perched on a metal stool in the basement while Becca works. There’s been a comfortable quiet between them, broken only occasionally by conversation.

“Naomi’s gone off to California,” Becca says.

There’s fondness in her voice, but it’s overlaid with exasperation.

“Oh her own?” Peggy asks.

“No,” Becca says. “She’s staying with a girl friend.”

There’s something in Becca’s tone and the way her eyes cut briefly towards Peggy that makes Peggy’s heart stutter.

“You don’t say,” she says, carefully casual.

Becca brushes hair out of her face with the back of her hand and studies Peggy a moment before turning back to the table.

“She’s a good writer, but I don’t know how much that’s going to help her,” she admits. “Figure California’s got plenty of poets.”

Peggy smiles and folds the newspaper over her knee. 

“Has she considered journalism? It seems a natural fit for her,” she says.

“I dunno,” Becca says. “She can’t seem to settle down for anything.”

“A bit of that gypsy heart?” Peggy suggests.

Becca looks up, startled, and smiles. After a moment, though, it turns somewhat sad and she looks away.

“Guess she took after Buck in more than one way,” she says quietly.

Peggy frowns. She can remember Becca comparing Naomi with Steve before but never James. Before she can ask, Becca changes the subject.

“No idea how she’ll make rent,” she says. “I imagine she’ll be home by May.”

“You don’t think she’ll try to stick it out?” Peggy asks, surprised.

Becca’s nose wrinkles and she snorts.

“I love Naomi,” she says, “but she’s the baby of the family. Twelve minutes younger’n Pat, even.”

Peggy laughs, and then a gentle quiet falls over them for a few minutes. Becca continues to work, and Peggy watches, fascinated, as Becca smooths over the dead woman’s skin and arranges her thin white hair.

“How did you learn to do this?” she asks.

“Hm? Oh, we always came down to watch Da and Uncle Daniel,” Becca explains. “We didn’t help till we were fourteen, but by then, we had a pretty good idea of how to do it all. After the war - well, there was no one else to take over and I had no plans. Four years in the WAC was plenty, thank you very much.”

Peggy nods. James had mentioned his little sister off in the Philippines often enough. During the war, Peggy had thought this mysterious sister was the only person he really cared about save Steve.

“Dad was always real sentimental about it all,” Becca continues absently.

Peggy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. From what she’s heard of George Barnes, he didn’t have a shred of softness in his body.

“Really?” she asks.

“Oh yeah, Dad was real good about caring once you were already dead. You should’ve seen him when we got the news about the boys,” Becca spits.

She bites down as if to stop herself from saying anymore. There’s a stiff silence for a few moments. She smooths back the corpse’s hair and adds a hint of blush before stepping away. Her jaw is still clenched.

“He was a good father, once,” she says, quiet. “He just got mean when Ruth died.”

“Ruth?” Peggy prompts.

Becca brushes off her hands on her apron and doesn’t look towards Peggy.

“Our big sis,” she explains. “She got caught in an accident when she was thirteen and didn’t make it.”

“I am so sorry,” Peggy says.

Becca waves a hand.

“Terrible as it is, I hardly remember her. I was barely six when it happened,” she says.

Peggy nods in understanding. Her own parents died when she was four, but as popular as the tragic orphan’s tale is, it’s never fit her. She remembers only faint impressions of them, and she’s never been sure if they are true memories or just stories her grandmother told so often they came to feel like memories.

“I know a bit about that,” she admits.

Becca smiles and tugs off her apron. There is a gentle flush to the woman’s soft cheeks and small smile lines in the corners of her eyes. Her light pink lips whisper of life and her relaxed shoulders of rest. For a fleeting instant, she looks as if she’s only just fallen asleep. Becca takes a quick breath before hanging up her apron and crooking an elbow towards Peggy in invitation.

“C’mon, let’s get something to eat,” she suggests. “I know a café with the best gossip.”

Peggy laughs.

\------

It knows these streets.

Its hands curl, mismatched, within the thin leather gloves the agent gave it. Distantly, it’s aware that it’s cold out; the people pushing past it on the street wear heavy wool coats and thick scarves. Hats are tugged down to hide their ears. 

It’s wearing similar clothing, but it can’t quite feel the cold. In its place is a prickling sensation and an insistent tug in the center of its chest as it looks down the long avenues. It could follow them, it thinks, and they would lead it home.

It’s supposed to kill a woman here, to hunt her down and slit her wrists.  _ Careful on the angle _ , they’d said, needlessly. This isn’t its first time staging a suicide. 

But it knows these streets. They call to it like a siren song. 

\------

“I still can’t believe you’re married,” Becca remarks.

She’s cutting the pancake into neat little rectangles exactly the same length as her fork tines. Peggy swallows the bite she’d taken and shrugs. Becca shakes her head.

“You planning on kids or is that agency of yours taking their place?” she asks.

She says it frankly but not unkindly, and Peggy feels an unspeakable surge of warmth towards the other woman. She’s used to everyone tiptoeing, of course, but it’s an indescribable relief to experience simple honesty sometimes.

“Daniel wants some,” Peggy says. “I think he’d be happy to stay home and take care of a whole brood.”

“And you?” Becca prompts.

Peggy pauses to consider it before taking another bite of pancake and washing it down with a swig of coffee. She can’t remember when she stopped taking tea with her meals.

“It’s never been a priority,” she admits.

Becca nods, and Peggy turns back to her meal. There’s a lull for a moment, both of them busy eating, before the conversation returns.

“And your two? How are they with a new sibling on the way?” Peggy asks.

Becca smiles, small and warm. It’s more apparent around her eyes than in the gentle curve of her lips. Years ago, this was the first expression Peggy found that didn’t match any she knew of James. She thinks she saw its ruins, though: Becca’s smile is as vulnerable and near-to-the-heart as James’ gaping desolation. She doesn’t want to know what it took to turn that love into heartbreak.

“Nathan’s overjoyed,” she laughs. “Lizzie’s pouting like a storm cloud.”

Peggy laughs.

“If nothing else, she’ll have a career in Hollywood,” she suggests.

“With that girl’s lungs, she’s better off on Broadway,” Becca scoffs.

Grinning, Peggy swallows the last of her coffee.

“I should pick up Daniel,” she says, apologetic.

“Are you driving back this afternoon?” Becca asks once they’re on the sidewalk.

Their arms are linked, a comfortable habit Peggy can’t remember picking up. It’s the easiest way to stick together on the crowded sidewalk, and there’s something comforting in the warmth of another person beside her.

Becca makes a small, considering noise when Peggy confirms.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” she offers. “We’ve got plenty of room. It’s just me and Ben and old Mrs. Richards, and she doesn’t take a room.”

Peggy puts up the appropriate amount of disagreement, but it’s not a fight she’s particularly inclined to win. She concedes with a smile, and Becca grins.

“Alright, you run off and get your husband, and I’ll get the house freshened up,” Becca orders.

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Peggy quips.

It’s a fairly quick drive, and she parks before going to meet Daniel. He’s a little flight-rumpled and tired-looking, but he still smiles when he sees her. She smiles back, warmth curling through her like smoke. They don’t speak till they reach the car; Peggy crooks her arm through his and they make their quiet way to the old silver sedan.

Daniel drops into the passenger seat with a comfortable sigh, and Peggy smiles. He opens his eyes to meet hers and grins back before leaning over to kiss her.

“How was the flight?” Peggy asks as she pulls out.

“Long and bumpy,” Daniel snorts. “Nah, it was fine. Worth it.”

Peggy nods and maneuvers around an inconvenient van. It’s big and white and in completely the wrong place. She narrows her eyes, watching it suspiciously in the rearview mirror, but it’s only a deliveryman who climbs back into the driver’s seat. She lets it go.

“Becca’s asked that we stay the night,” she says.

Daniel’s eyebrows raise.

“The both of us?” he asks.

“Of course,” Peggy scoffs, shooting him a sideways glance. “She was at our wedding.”

Daniel laughs and settles into the seat a little more comfortably. His crutch leans up in the crack between door and seat.

“I’m just saying, they’re a lot sweeter on you than me,” he says. “A lot sweeter on you than most anybody.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Peggy says.

Daniel grins but doesn’t say any more as they pull up in front of the parlor. Peggy takes his suitcase despite his half-hearted complaints, and she raps on the door at the base of the stairs once they’re inside. 

Becca comes down with a funny look on her face and a dish towel between her hands.

“Hi there,” she greets absently. “So good to see you, Daniel.”

“You too,” Daniel replies, shooting Peggy a confused look.

“Becca, are you alright?” Peggy presses.

She laughs, brittle, and twists the towel between her hands. Her expression flickers between three variations of confusion.

“I just got the strangest call,” she admits. “Bucky and Steve’s apartment was broken into.”

\------

The men in the photo are familiar, in a distant sense. Most of the one man’s face is covered by a US military cap, but the asset knows the jawline and narrow shoulders even in this tiny shot. The other man is less familiar, but there is a sickly twist in its gut at the fear in his eyes. It knows - it knows. Artefacts press up behind its eyes.

“No,” the asset mutters. “No no no.”

It braces itself against the sink, hands clenching tight. Fine cracks begin to spiderweb out from under its left hand, but that’s not enough to stop the artefact.

_ “C’mon, Stevie,” he wheedles. “Coney Island, just me an’ you.” _

_ Steve huffs, skinny arms crossed. His jacket bunches up over them, too big and blousy. _

_ “It’s my last night,” he presses, and that does it. _

_ Steve’s shoulders droop and he relents. _

_ “Fine,” Steve says. “Okay.” _

_ He grins and hooks an arm around Steve’s neck to tug him over roughly. Steve snorts and bats his arm away, laughing. He grins, successful. _

_ “Knock it off, jerk,” Steve gripes. _

_ “Come on and make me, punk,” he teases. _

He gulps in air, getting too little and too much at the same time. He’s drowning on dry land, and he can’t stop his right hand from clenching too-tight around the little photo and crumpling it. He drops it and pushes away from the bathroom, stumbling through the tiny flat. He has to go has to get away has to - 

\------

The apartment shouldn’t even exist, not the way it does. A decade is long past any lease agreement and even Captain America isn’t exempt from the passage of time.

And yet -

Peggy glances up from a haphazard array of papers spread across the table as if someone had only moments to look through them. Daniel limps in from the kitchen and pauses, eyebrows raised as he surveys the room.

“Someone really didn’t like this place,” he jokes. 

“Or they were looking for something,” Peggy replies, setting down the sketch she’d picked up.

It’s finely crafted: a view of a Brooklyn building that feels as real as the one in which she stands. Bricks are clearly cut with all their rough edges and crumbling mortar, and a laden clothesline flutters from one side of the window in its center. Within this window is the only solecism: a little stick figure with droopy suspenders and an exaggerated frown, helpfully labeled  _ Stevie Rogers - “Brooklyn Artiste.” _

“For what?” Becca asks.

She’s standing by the apple-crate bookshelf, a battered copy of  _ Brave New World _ cradled in one hand. Looking out over the flat, Peggy can’t help but wonder the same. The walls are bare, the furniture cared-for but cheap, the floor plain wood that creaks like each step is the last it’ll take. If there’s anything valuable here, it’s well-hidden. 

She picks her way back through the tipped-over furniture - a threadbare couch that smells faintly of mold and the end table that had stood beside it - towards the bathroom, but her pump taps a fallen picture frame. She crouches to right it and pauses. It’s surely been twenty years since the photo was taken, but the faces are easily identifiable. James is grinning and Becca looks like she’s biting her lips to keep from laughing; Miriam’s crying while Naomi and Pat frown thoughtfully at the camera. Their parents are solemn, faces half-faded in the background.

She sets it carefully on the end table and continues on her way.

The bathroom’s little more than a closet, and she struggles trying to imagine either James or Steve using it comfortably. The mirror is small and low, just below chest-level, and there’s a three-legged stool against the wall across from it. The sink’s left corner is crushed, cracks spider-webbing out from the shattered epicenter, and there are flecks of blood on the other corner. In the middle of the sink is a crumpled piece of paper. She picks it up gingerly and unfolds the edges with her fingertips.

“What is it?” Daniel asks from the doorway.

“The plucky sidekick himself,” Peggy replies.

“Wasn’t real plucky when I met him,” Daniel mutters. There’s a pause and then, contritely, “Sorry.”

Peggy glances up to find Becca just beyond Daniel, but the other woman only shrugs.

“When’d you meet him?” she asks.

“The Commandos rescued my company back in ‘44,” Daniel explains. “Well, Captain Rogers did, really, but the Commandos covered us as we were getting out.”

Peggy turns back to the photo and tunes out their quiet conversation. It’s a carnie-style shot, the square image folded and creased. James’ arm is slung over Steve’s bony shoulders, his cap is shoved down on Steve’s head so that only Steve’s scowl is visible, and his uniform is neat and clean. He’s laughing, clearly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes; they look, in that half-faded moment, terrified.

“That Rogers?” Daniel asks.

“Yeah,” Becca answers for Peggy. “Before.”

There’s a crack through James’ left shoulder, but the photo is otherwise intact. Whoever trashed the flat wasn’t angry enough to tear it. Smoothing it as near to flat as she can manage, Peggy passes it wordlessly to Becca. She studies it a moment, cradled carefully in her hand.

“Seems like Buck would’ve taken this,” she remarks.

They part for Peggy to step out of the bathroom, but she stops a short ways away to survey the flat. The window’s been closed since they arrived, and the papers and books scattered across the floor have stopped their lackadaisical fluttering. The kitchen was ignored, only the living room, bath, and bedroom ravaged. The personal areas.

“Whatever they took, it must’ve been small,” Daniel remarks. “Lotta’ work to go through to get whatever it was.”

“Was there anything among the books?” Peggy asks, turning to Becca.

“Just a lot of Steve’s drawings - mostly Bucky,” she says with a shrug. 

Daniel’s eyebrows raise in question and Becca catches the expression. She smiles, small and wistful.

“Bucky was a well-documented specimen of the Brooklyn Peacock,” she drawls. “He’d pose for anyone.”

Peggy smiles at the joke and only half-listens to Daniel’s reply. The first time she saw the much-lauded Bucky Barnes of the 107th, he’d been filthy, haunted, and predatory - a whipped dog who saw every shadow as a threat. He’d cleaned up after that first week, wiped away the grime and smoothed back his hair, but it had been like a flimsy coat of veneer over rotting wood - the last thing still holding together the splinters of what once had been Bucky Barnes.

She keeps that to herself.

\------

They find him in an alleyway. He remembers - pieces. His eyes are cast low but his fists coiled tight. They edge carefully towards him, a five man team. He’s thought of thirteen ways to take them out faster than he used to calculate trajectories. 

“I’m not going with you,” he says.

“Stand down, Soldier,” one of them says.

They’ve all shifted their guns to his chest.  _ Idiots _ , he thinks as he lunges for the first one _ , aim for the legs. _ He takes one out with a sweep of his leg and a metal elbow to their face. Another with their own gun. Within three minutes, there’s only one standing. This one stops, holding up both hands.

“Hey, Sarge, it’s okay,” they say. “I’m here to help.”

They sound young and American. He freezes. Slowly, they unbuckle the chinstrap before lifting the helmet from his head. A strong jaw, soft blonde hair, blue-blue-blue eyes. He stops breathing and takes a lurching step forward.

“Steve?” he asks.

Steve hesitates before nodding.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Steve,” he confirms.

“God, Stevie,” he blurts out and reaches for him.

Steve seems different somehow, like he’s not quite the right shape, but they can figure that out later. He wraps his arms tight around Steve and shakes and shakes and shakes.

\------

Peggy closes the workshop door carefully and gives the assistants pointed looks. The room empties quickly enough, but it takes a few minutes for Howard to notice. When he does, he takes a quick survey before leaning back in his chair, nonchalant.

“Hey, Pegs,” he greets.

“How is your investment in Brooklyn?” she asks.

Surprise flickers over his face, but it’s quickly shuttered over with a blank expression.

“Whatcha’ talking about?” he asks and turns back to his table. “I’ve got investments everywhere.”

“And the one with only ghosts for occupants?” she prompts.

He freezes for a heartbeat before realization dawns. Then, he sprawls back again with ease.

“C’mon, Pegs, it’s full of their stuff. They’re national icons. You think I could just let all that get trashed?” he demands.

She wants to hit him, then. She won’t, but she wants to. Wants to knock that smug look off his face, as if he’s somehow got her there. She can feel it knot up inside her, this helpless rage that somehow, this man started SHIELD with her. Somehow, this man looked her in the eye and said she should be the one stepping into the Vita-Rays. She doesn’t know what happened, what metamorphosis changed that man into this one with his complacent self-importance and obtuse naïvete.

“If you really believe the pots and pans of that flat are meant to be memorialized,” she spits, “then you’d do well to see them to a museum instead of leaving them in that damned tenement.”

“Wouldn’t think you’d want some of those letters getting out, Mrs. Barnes,” Howard says.

Peggy stills suddenly, feels ice steady in her veins and slow her heart. She meets Howard’s gaze with an unflinching stare.

They’d found some letters in the flat, of course. They were standard letters home: complaints about the sand of North Africa, admonitions for Steve to take care of himself, and plans for when James returned home on leave. There was nothing remotely incriminating in them.

“What, precisely, do you mean by that?” she asks.

Howard juts his jaw a little, mulish.

“Oh, I know how buddy-buddy you are with the family now, Peggy,” he says. “Jumping in with them when Cap was barely dead. Guessing you wouldn’t take too kindly to letters showing how cracked Barnes was.”

She isn’t wholly sure what he’s implying, but if she’s honest, that doesn’t matter much. What matters is that he’s found something he thinks will hurt her and he’s digging in with malicious pleasure.

Her right hook is just as quick and sharp as 1943, and he reels back clutching his face. She keeps his gaze.

“Sergeant Barnes was your friend,” she says.

She turns on a heel and clicks out the door, closing the door behind her. She pauses a step beyond it before continuing briskly on to the women’s locker room. The entire room is empty, of course. There are still too few female agents to fill it on a good day.

She sits carefully on the bench between two rows of lockers. Her shoulders cave, and she drops her head to rest in her hands. She wants to scream, to sob. She does neither.

Three minutes later, she straightens and steps out of the locker room with her head held high. 

\------

Steve comes to him again. He looks worried this time, like something’s got him wound tight. There’s something nagging at the back of Bucky’s mind, something that’s not quite right. He knows he should be able to place it; it’s Steve, and Steve matters. He just doesn’t know what it is.

“I need you to wait for me,” Steve says. “I’m going to get you out - I swear I’m going to get you out - but I gotta go away for a while. I need you to promise me you’ll wait for me.”

“Okay,” he says.

Steve stares at him, jaw set.

“It might be a long while,” he warns. “I’m going under deep. But I’m coming back for you. I promise I’m coming back. Even if it takes a long time, I need you to remember that. Don’t give up. I’m going to get you out.”

Bucky smiles, soft in a way he only ever is for Steve, and he reaches out the flesh hand to rest on Steve’s shoulder.

“‘Course, Stevie,” he promises. “To the end of the line.”

Steve’s jaw trembles, and he looks away quickly. There’s a long moment before Steve meets his eyes again. They look wet, and it bothers him. Steve doesn’t cry, not if anyone can see. He bites down on his hand in the middle of the night when he thinks Bucky won’t notice. He’s not like Buck, who cries at the movies, at weddings, at a new baby’s introduction to the rest of the family.

“To the end of the line,” Steve repeats.

\------

Peggy slides into the car, carefully keeping her hem from brushing the side. November has settled in with a vengeance, and the streets are heavy with slush and mud. The door closes with a click.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” she greets.

“Carter,” Eisenhower grunts.

These meetings are always vaguely uncomfortable, like sitting with a grandfather who respects her choices but doesn't really commend them. That he is nearly thirty years her senior doesn't help the feeling at all.

“You wanted to speak about the Soviet development, sir?” she prompts.

He snorts.

“Is that what you spooks are calling it? A ‘development’?” he scoffs.

She waits, expression polite but neutral. She’s not about to tell him that she had to hide a laugh when a particularly exhausted agent giggled to his partner that it was a ‘Soviet  _ bombshell.’ _

“Fine,” he grunts. “How the hell did the Soviets get their hands on an H-bomb? Howard Stark promised they were years away from one, at the soonest.”

_ Howard Stark makes a lot of promises that aren’t true _ , she thinks spitefully. They’re still co-directors, though, and she keeps that to herself.

“The Soviets’ technology has been advancing at an unheard-of pace,” she says. “It far outstrips the projections made when studying their infrastructure and research.”

Eisenhower studies her with narrowed dark eyes before raising one eyebrow. It’s a peculiar expression on him - almost too keen for such a grandfatherly face.

“Are you saying they’re getting inside information?” he demands.

“It seems the most likely explanation,” she replies.

“You got any ideas on the mole, then, Carter?” Eisenhower presses.

Peggy pauses, pressing her lips together. Her theory is unpopular at best and treasonous at worst.  It would be all too easy to implicate Eisenhower and effectively knot her own noose.

“I believe you are familiar with Operation Paperclip, sir,” she says. 

His eyes narrow again. He doesn’t say anything, but she takes that as a sign to continue.

“Among the scientists recruited are some with direct connections to the Nazi organization HYDRA,” she explains. “During the war, HYDRA’s technology consistently surpassed our own in ways even Howard Stark could not explain.”

“Are you implying that HYDRA is still active, Director Carter?” Eisenhower demands.

His voice leaves little doubt as to his thoughts: she’s still stuck in the war, still pining for a time gone-by. She words her next statements carefully.

“HYDRA was effectively eliminated by the end of the war, sir,” she replies. “However, the scientists we recruited likely retained some information from the organization. Cut off from the main body, they would be unlikely to create the same gap we saw during the war but their limited data could account for the increasing advancement within the Soviet Union.”

He studies her a little longer before turning to stare out the window. The clouds are a bright, dirty gray that hurts to look at for long. Eisenhower sighs and turns to her.

“I assume you have a shortlist,” he says.

Peggy nods and unclips her briefcase to pull out a thin manilla envelope. There are only a few pages within, and Eisenhower skims through it quickly. He lingers at one point before turning to her with a wry expression.

“Arnim Zola?” he asks. “Careful, Carter, or some people might think you can’t let go of a grudge.”

She accepts the folder back and returns it to her locked case.

“I assure you, sir, this is entirely professional. He was the head scientist for Schmidt, and it stands to reason he would harbor resentment towards America,” she replies.

Eisenhower shakes his head and nods out the window to the secret service agent standing just outside the door. Peggy picks up her case and moves to leave.

“Watch out for yourself, Carter,” he says. “God knows no one else will.”

\------

“They said one of the Americans could control it,” a tech says.

“An American control the Soldier?” a guard scoffs. “Right.”

The asset keeps still, its gaze set steadily through the wall directly ahead of it. It knows something happened on the last mission, that it somehow misbehaved and required discipline. It does not know what happened but it knows that discipline is suboptimal. It requires more intel to determine how to avoid the error in the future.

“No, seriously,” the tech insists. “Said it thought he was someone it knew - just fell in line like a little kid.”

The guard frowns, and in its periphery, the asset can see him eye it curiously. It has yet to be programmed; it simply sits in the chair, empty and waiting. 

“Huh,” the guard says. “You gotta name for this American?”

The tech groans and twists around in his chair to shuffle through a paper file. It takes him forty-eight seconds to find what he seeks, but then, he pulls a sheet of neat typeset from the folder.

“ Черт,” the tech swears. “Alexander Pierce, nineteen, just getting recruited.”

“They let a new recruit in on this?” the guard demands.

“Some dumbass sent him with the wrong team,” the tech replies. “ Охуел. Just got shipped off to fucking Indochina, though.”

The guard shakes his head in the asset’s periphery. Before he can open his mouth again, the door swings open and he snaps to attention. Control enters, lips pursed in displeasure. The asset doesn’t shiver because it doesn’t know to, but it tracks Control’s movements carefully.

“Get out,” Control tells the workers.

The tech and guard salute and scurry out the door. Control sits heavily on a stool he drags in front of the asset. The asset waits.

“Can you tell me what caused the malfunction?” Control asks.

The asset forces itself to focus, to drag up the memories requested.

“Interference experienced via intrusive neural stimulus,” it reports. “Mission objective restructured due to proximity of familiar environment.”

Control frowns and leans forward. His hand is gentle on the asset’s knee but it is clammy. The asset is struck by the sudden urge to pull away.

“You failed your mission, Soldier,” Control says. “A very evil woman was allowed to live because you failed.”

His voice is thick with worry, and the asset feels a prickle along its spine. It failed. It does not fail. It cannot fail.

“Failure is unacceptable,” Control continues. “Do you remember when you came to us?”

The asset stares at him and tries to drag the memories forward. They will not come. It shakes its head, but Control does not seem angry or even particularly surprised.

“You had failed that time, too. You lost focus, allowed interference to disrupt the mission,” Control says gently. “It cost many of your comrades’ lives and nearly cost yours, too. It was a great blow to us.”

The asset has no memory of this, but it trusts Control implicitly. It can only imagine the suffering its last mistake caused.

“You must not allow yourself to become distracted. We cannot afford another mistake,” Control continues. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the asset answers. “I will do better, sir.”

Control doesn’t smile, but his round head bobs in a nod. He reaches his clammy hand up to cup the asset’s cheek.

“I know you will, soldier.”

\------

She stops by the office when she’s done with the president. Daniel won’t be surprised when she’s home late, and it’s not as if she’s the one making dinner in their house.

It’s past hours, and the only light is the watery kind reflected off the floors from the windows. There’s the low hum of machinery buzzing through the building, and her pumps click against the concrete floor. No one else is here.

She unlocks her office door and then stops.

There is a package on her desk, a manila envelope on top. They’re both outlined by the gold streetlights outside her window. She turns her attention back behind her, trying to remember if anything seemed out of place. She knows it didn’t, knows it would have given her pause. There is one other person with a key to her office, but she hardly thinks the two of them are on good enough terms to be leaving each other gifts. After another long moment, she flicks the light switch.

No one jumps out from behind her desk, and no bombs explode. She steps briskly around to the back of her desk but keeps an eye on the darkened bullpen beyond her open door. She frowns at the familiar folder, and her own neat handwriting stares back. She sets it to the side to read through later and turns instead to open the brown paper around the package. When it falls open, Peggy takes a breath and an involuntary step back from the desk.

They’re letters, square edges soft and rounded. The handwriting on the envelopes is quick and precise.  _ SGT. J.B. BARNES 32557038, 107TH REG.  _

There’s no note, no explanation for Howard’s sudden change of heart. It’s been months since their argument. She shoves the bundle of letters into her bottom drawer and locks it before opening the folder. She needs a distraction. 

Inside is an Electrofax copy of a letter. It’s clearly been translated to English: the handwriting is neat and exact as a student’s. Howard has scratched out certain words and written in substitutes above until the entire copy is a mess. Peggy sighs and eyes it dubiously. She’s fairly certain she could have understood the code without his assistance.

_ My dear Evgeni, _

_ I am so pleased to hear from you. Unfortunately, I can only write a brief message. My dear [women’s name] and I are expecting guests. _

To the side of this, Howard has helpfully clarified that this means instead that the writer feels they are being watched. Peggy resists a groan and continues reading.

_ As for the folktale you asked about, I believe I have found it: the story of the Snow Queen. It is a very old tale told many times but this is the story my baba taught me: _

_ “Long, long ago, there lived a wicked tsarita who could control the winter. She was called the Snow Queen and she wished for no one to feel happiness. She ruled over the kingdom from her ice palace far up in the tundra. _

_ But there was a young man, a soldier from another kingdom who was lost in the land of winter. He was very strong and brave, but he was injured. _

_ The Snow Queen found the Soldier and was very taken with him. She gave him two kisses. One, to numb him from the cold. The second to make him forget all his life and family. She swept him up in her sleigh and carried him to her palace. _

_ She healed the Soldier and gave him wondrous armor of ice. Because he could not remember anything from before, the Soldier loved the Snow Queen and did everything she asked. _

_ The Soldier was the Snow Queen’s greatest asset. But her spell over him was not perfect and he sometimes began to remember his past. So every night, the Snow Queen kissed him on the forehead before he went to sleep so that he would not remember.” _

Peggy swallows and turns away from the text to skim through Howard’s notes and the rest of the letter. The tale wraps up simply and tragically: the Soldier is frozen in a coffin of ice when he stops obeying the Snow Queen. She isn’t surprised by that, but she does startle shortly after. There, at the very bottom of the page is a name:  _ Cordially yours, Ivan Vanko. _

\------

They bring it men. They are not to be beaten or trained. They are to discipline the asset. They are diligent in their work. They do not falter. 

The asset is silent throughout.

It deserves this, it knows. It failed. It needs to be punished, needs to be given a reminder that failure is unacceptable. That distraction is fatal.

It stares straight forward and does not make a sound. Its cheeks are wet. The sensation is familiar. It doesn’t know why.


	4. Chapter 4

_ 1961 _

_ Washington, D.C. _

Howard hasn’t moved in over a minute, one hand cradling his head. Across the table, Peggy resists the urge to do the same. The radio between them continues broadcasting without pity.

“The United States - officially giving - ”Moscow radio declares in between bursts of static. “ - equipped them with the latest weapons-”

“This is a hell of a mess,” Howard finally says.

Peggy rubs under one eye and sighs. Fifteen years and the CIA still treats SHIELD as suspect. She isn’t surprised, just frustrated. It would be one thing if that were all it was, but then they insist on creating messes that drag everyone into the mud. Her agents shouldn’t pay for their mistakes.

“We’ll need to brief our operatives in Cuba covertly,” she says.

Howard grunts but finally lifts his head.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he admits.

“Good,” Peggy says. “I’ll start on minimizing the damage until you’ve established contact.”

He stands and starts to leave. He pauses at the door.

“You going to talk to the Prez or should I?” he asks.

Peggy cants her head and narrows her eyes. It wouldn’t be a terrible time to step forward and offer some assistance. It could finally offer SHIELD some regard, even if it’ll look a bit sycophantic. But. But SHIELD is a shadow organization, and they don’t step out until bidden. There will be better opportunities later.

“We have other work for now,” she says.

\------

It can’t stand when they wake it. Its legs won’t hold it and the left arm sends it listing heavily to the isde. The technicians who catch it grunt and swear at the weight. Their touch burns. 

“C’mon, Soldier,” one tech says. “Let’s go.”

_ Soldier. _ The word rings in its mind, bouncing off icy, empty blue.

They manage to half-drag it to a metal table and, with two guards’ assistance, heave it up onto the slab.

The metal is hot as fire against its frosted skin and it whimpers low and thin. The shaking has begun, fine tremors racing up and down its flesh. It stops whimpering when a tech snaps at it to shut up, but it can’t stop the shaking.

“This is the famous Winter Soldier?” one guard scoffs. “He can’t even stand.”

The technicians don’t reply, and it stops tracking the voices around it. Burning sweeps through it till it’s choking on its own vomit, too weak to roll over. There’s a brutal ache in its low gut that it doesn’t understand but the technicians do. It loses time in the pain, in the burning and then the blood.

\------

“Kinda glad I got shot,” Morita says.

“Jim,” Peggy admonishes.

She’s bent over the table while he reads off the transcripts from the agents in Cuba. She could do it on her own, but he’s stuck on desk work till his arm heals. It’s not a terrible hardship to have his company.

“I’m just saying. These kids got the short end of the stick,” he says.

Peggy glances up at the papers he’s holding. It’s unfortunately true: the SHIELD agents stationed in Cuba have been constantly swamped with conflicting information over the last few months. The CIA’s most recent debacle has only made it worse.

“They did sign up for this,” she says.

Morita stops reading for a moment. He studies her with a curious expression, like he doesn’t quite recognize her. She’s familiar with it. Increasingly, she finds the same one in her bathroom mirror in the mornings. She turns back to her work.

“I’m taking lunch at twelve-thirty,” she says. “I’ll send someone in to help you.”

“No need,” Morita says. “I’ve got a date with the decryption unit at one.”

Peggy nods and finishes the tail of a ‘y.’

“From the Marshall Islands study?” she asks.

Morita makes a noise of affirmation, and then they settle back in their work. When twelve-thirty rolls around, Peggy closes the folder in her middle drawer and locks it before closing and locking her office as well. Morita gives her a half-hearted salute before heading off, and Peggy turns the opposite way.

Outside, it’s a beautiful May day with every tree branch and stop sign christened with the morning’s raindrops. Peggy pauses to breathe in the spring air, and then she’s off to her errands.

She stops by Mr. Assam’s bookstore. Mrs. Jefferson’s bakery. Mr. Chavez’s flower stand.

Mr. Assam apologizes that they haven’t found the edition she’s looking for. Mrs. Jefferson laments that she just burned a batch of rolls. Mr. Chavez smiles and presents her with a free bouquet of extra cuttings.

“Para nuestra cliente favorita,” he declares.

“Que dulce, señor. Son bonitos,” she replies, holding the bunch carefully. “Muchas gracias.”

“Siempre para tí, Peggy Carter,” he replies.

When Peggy reaches the café, she takes her usual table and usual order. Once it’s delivered, she pauses to admire the bouquet while one of her fingers runs along the base of the stems. One stem, two stems, three - and  _ there. _ One of Howard’s camera pens slips out with a little wiggling, and she tucks it carefully into her wallet.

“You look like you’re having a good day, Peggy,” the waitress, Annamarie, remarks with a smile. 

Peggy smiles back beautifully.

\------

There are ten girls out here in the woods.  _ Find and incapacitate them. Do not kill them. _ It’s an off day, one where the asset wobbles along the edge of a knife with artefacts just waiting to pull it down, but it can follow these commands.

Two girls are tucked together under the scrubby branches of a bush. The asset knocks the first out with the back of its hand and breaks the other’s left leg when she tries to run away.

Eight.

The girls are good. They’ve split apart and covered their tracks. The asset is better. The next three are within fifty square meters. It shoots the hand one is using to hold onto a tree and then the thigh she uses to reestablish her grip. She falls with a pained yelp, but it is already moving to the next. It snaps her wrist and chokes her out. The third freezes in front of the asset. It slams her head into a nearby tree and lets her fall.

Five.

It takes the asset five minutes to find the next one, then two more, then another one. It knocks these unconscious and dislocates the shoulder of one who tries to fight back.

One. 

The Winter Soldier has never lost a target, it knows. This girl won’t be the first. 

\------

It’s half-past six when she leaves her office to run down to archives. The lights in the bullpen are shut off except for a few agents staying to wrap up loose ends. Peggy snags the files she was looking for and returns to her office. The door clatters shut as she sits down at her desk. Silence settles over the office.

It's broken when the phone rings. Peggy stares at it a moment, baffled. Daniel’s in California with the West Coast office, and she can't think of anyone else calling this phone. Its red twin on the opposite corner of the desk is the one dedicated to operatives, after all. The babysitter? Katherine’s never had trouble with the kids before. She picks up the receiver.

“Hello,” she greets.

“Is this Margaret Carter?”

“If you're calling this number, I believe you know the answer to that, Mr. President,” she replies.

There's a quiet laugh on the other end. She caps her pen and waits.

“You got me there,” Kennedy says.

“How can I help you, sir?” She asks.

There's a pause on the other end for a long moment, and Peggy rolls her eyes at the image it conjures of a room full of advisors listening in.

“I don't know how much you watch the news, Director, but recently there’s been a sign that I could use some education on intelligence,” Kennedy explains. “A little bird told me that I couldn't find a better mentor than Agent Carter of SHIELD.”

Peggy frowns at the empty office, wracking her brain for any idea of who the “little bird” could be. She knows it wasn’t Howard: as much as he likes to go off on his own ideas, he’s not that close to the president. Had it been the VP - well, she might believe it more readily.

“What exactly do you want, Mr. President?” she asks.

“Meet with me for lunch next Thursday,” he says, and it’s not quite an order but a plea. “A care will pick you up at eleven.”

“That isn’t an answer, sir,” she replies calmly.

She taps her pen on the desk as she waits for an explanation. On the other end, Kennedy sighs.

“Thompson did say you were stubborn,” he mutters.

“I’m sure that’s how he phrased it,” Peggy says dryly before she can catch herself.

Kennedy’s startled into a laugh, and Peggy relaxes a little. There’s a moment of static and then a pause before he answers.

“I need you to help me save the world,” he says, dead serious.

He can’t see her, but Peggy still smiles as she bites back a laugh.  _ Save the world? _ She wants to say.  _ Welcome to my day job. _

\------

It’s been two hours. The asset rubs its eyebrow ridge against the migraine forming from trying to hold off the artefact scratching at the backs of its eyes. Finally, it relents.

_ “C’mon, Buck,” Becca pleads. “Ma ain’t gonna’ tell you to get out if you come around.” _

_ He sighs and shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. It’s hot as hell, sun beating down like a goddamn oven, and he was sick of this conversation the moment it started. Now, he’s just roasting in his own angry, shameful juices.  _ Christ, Bec. Can’t you drop one damn thing? _ Glancing over his shoulder, he stops to wait for Steve. _

_ “Ma was there when he kicked me out, Becca,” he says. “You know she ain’t gonna go against Dad’s rule.” _

_ “Oh, hell,” Becca snaps, stopping as well. “Can’t he ever keep up?” _

_ He turns around then, hackings raised. It’s too hot to deal with either of these conversations, but she knows where he draws the line. _

_ “Leave him outta’ this,” he growls before leaving her to walk back to Steve. “Hey, Stevie, y’doing alright?” _

_ He’s white as a sheet, even paler than his normal three-steps-from-death shade, and rubbing at his chest. Bucky loops his arm around Steve’s back and leads them to a nearby bench. He catches Becca rolling her eyes in his periphery, but she follows anyway. Steve all but collapses onto the seat, his breath short but not like one of his attacks yet.  _ Thank G-d,  _ Bucky thinks. He keeps his arm over the back of the bench and rubs absently at that crooked spot in Steve’s back. _

_ “Just keep breathing, Stevie,” he says. “We ain’t in a rush.” _

_ “‘m fine,” Steve mutters. _

_ “Sure y’are,” Bucky agrees, settling back on the bench. _

_ Steve shoots him a look from under his bangs, but he’s forced to shift his attention away quick enough, still rubbing at his chest.  _

_ “Just - tired,” he finally admits. _

_ “Yeah?” Bucky asks. “No problem. We got time.” _

_ Becca drops down on his other side with a huff. She’s itching to get back to their conversation, he knows, but she won’t bring it up in front of Steve. She’s good like that. _

It passes, and he’s slumped sideways against a tree with the world spinning in lazy loops. There’s a voice, clear and loud this time - not in his head, then.

“Return to base, Soldier,” it orders.

He goes.

\------

The car that picks her up is a nondescript coupe that takes a meandering route to the White House. She sighs and settles into her seat when they take the fifth switchback. 

When they do finally reach the White House, she’s ushered briskly down the hallway to a small office with the inside blinds pulled. Peggy raises an eyebrow at the gesture, wondering if it’s meant to be for her or the president. Inside, Kennedy’s flirting with one of the secretaries, but he dismisses her promptly. She goes with a blush and stifled grin.

“Director Carter,” Kennedy greets and offers his hand.

“Mr. President,” she says.

They sit katty-corner from one another, but Kennedy doesn’t begin immediately. Instead, he taps his fingers against the tabletop twice before turning to her.

“I’ve always been a great admirer of Captain Rogers,” he starts. 

She used to have to stifle a groan whenever someone started a sentence like that, but now, she doesn’t even blink. 

“I’ve had some health problems,” Kennedy continues, “so you can imagine how much he’s inspired me. It’s really an honor to work with someone he respected and admired so much. ”

It’s a small sort of surprise that unfolds in her chest, and she keeps her expression neutral. She doesn’t have to be flattered that he chose “respected” over “slept with.” But - well, it’s an olive branch in a world of friendly fire. She’ll take it.

“You wished to go over the Cuba reports?” she prompts.

\------

She’s a red-head, it turns out. Big blue-green eyes in a broad, pale face, topped off with a shock of sunset-red hair. She stares at him while they wait. Surreptitiously, of course - just quick little glances out of the corner of her eye. She’s seven, maybe. Something in him softens and hurts at her big pale eyes. They’re too familiar, though he’s sure they’ve never met.

He tries on a smile, a small one that feels uncomfortable on his lips. He’s still armed, but everything’s holstered. He’s not sure that matters when he can think of dozens of ways to kill her without drawing a single weapon.

“You don’t got a cigarette by any chance, do you?” he asks.

His voice is rough and a little sore coming out, like it’s dragging across his vocal chords. She twitches, her eyes going wide. She shakes her head once but doesn't speak. He shrugs and lets it go; the cigarette wasn’t the point so much as simply forming words aloud.

“What’s your name, hun?” he asks.

She’s silent.

“I don’t have one,” he admits. “Guess it’s not important for a weapon. I think I might’ve once, though. ”

The little girl frowns before reaching a tentative hand out. It hovers over his own for four seconds before settling gently on his. He shifts his slowly, carefully, so that her hand rests on his palm. It’s tiny against his broad hand, but he can already feel where there are callouses starting.

“Natalia,” she says.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalia. I don’t imagine I’ll remember you long.”

\------

Peggy pauses just inside the door. She can hear Daniel’s voice and the constant rustle of two toddlers. Michael’s just learned to walk, and Abigail’s just started primary. It’s led to an unending cycle of chaos in their house that has both Peggy and Daniel frazzled.

“Daddy, daddy!” Abigail exclaims. “Guess what we learned about in school today!”

Peggy leans against the wall, just out of sight of the living room, with a small smile as Daniel replies. He’s always been better with them than she is, and she enjoys the chance to listen in without disrupting their little trio. 

“Captain America!” Abigail declares. 

Peggy winces and tilts her head back against the wall. Apparently, they’ll have some new misconceptions to clarify now.

“Did you know Captain America, Daddy?” Abigail asks.

Michael burbles happily.

“Not really, sweetheart. I just met him once,” Daniel says. 

“You  _ met  _ him?” Abigail repeats. “What was he like?”

There’s an  _ oof _ , and then, she can hear him shift on the couch, likely making room for Abigail. Peggy stays still against the wall.

“He was very nice,” Daniel says. “Um, very brave. Did you know he saved my life?”

She can picture the face he’s making: an exaggeratedly solemn look with wide eyes and raised brows. It’s confirmed by Abigail’s excited gasp.

“ _ He saved you?” _ she asks.

“Yeah. He saved me and a whole bunch of soldiers. He was so brave,” Daniel confirms. “But you wanna know a secret?”

“Yes!” Abigail exclaims.

“Your mommy saved  _ him _ ,” Daniel says.

Peggy stifles a sob in the back of her wrist.  _ Oh, darling. Oh, you bloody goddamned fool. _ She slips her pumps off and hooks her fingers in the back before slipping out the side door. The door closes quiet as a whisper behind her. She checks that no neighbors are watching before crossing carefully to the sidewalk. She slips her pumps back on and turns back to the house. She swings the door open intentionally and clicks on in.

“Hello!” she calls.

There’s the patter of running feet and then the slower stump of Michael’s wobble.

“Abby!” Daniel calls. “C’mon, no running inside!”

Abigail gives a sheepish look and scoots into a brisk walk till she reaches Peggy. She wraps her arms tight around Peggy’s skirt and beams up at her.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Peggy greets.

She bends to hoist Abigail into her arms and is rewarded with a tight hug around her neck. Daniel follows Michael in, smiling. Peggy shifts Abigail to the arm holding her briefcase and lets Daniel pull her in for a one-armed hug and quick kiss.

“You’re home early,” he remarks.

Peggy grimaces.

“Only for dinner and bedtime, I’m afraid,” she admits. “I’ve got to go back in tonight.”

His face falls but only for a moment. He’s always understood that SHIELD came first for her, and he’s never begrudged her or it that. 

“Well, we’ll take what we get,” he says. “C’mon, Abby, let’s set the table.”

“I’ll be right in,” Peggy says.

She sets Abigail down and drops her coat and case in the hall closet before following to the dining room. Abigail’s carrying three plates to the table with the single-minded focus of a child charged with an adult’s task, and Daniel’s setting down silverware. Michael toddles after him, and Peggy sneaks in to scoop him into her arms.

“Hello, Mr. Sousa,” she greets seriously.

He blinks big brown eyes at her, cheeks flushed pink. She bounces him once and makes a face. Four faces later, he’s giggling and smiling back at her. She grins, triumphant, and settles him on her hip. When she looks up, Daniel’s watching with a soppy smile.

“Oh, stop it, you sap,” she says without heat.

\------

They give him more freedom now. He’s to train the next generation of heroes, they say. He is their greatest asset, but even he is not immortal. To ensure the nation’s freedom and glory for the future, he must do his part and teach these new students.

“It is an honor to be given such an important task,” they say.

He nods. He knows, distantly, that he’s heard those words before. He doesn’t know when.

They bring in five girls. Three blondes, a brunette, a redhead. They all stand at attention, their focus just over his right shoulder. Their small bodies are taut with nerves, except the redhead. She stands alert but loose, wide blue-green eyes easy. He looks at her and thinks - sunset-red, tiny hands, callouses -

“Natalia.”

The redhead steps forward at the handler’s call and shifts into a defensive position. They begin.

\------

It’s half past nine by the time she gets back to the office, and the building is dark and empty as she walks up to her office. Inside, she unlocks the top left drawer of her desk and slides the papers there to the far back. It takes her fingernails a moment to get purchase on the edge of the false bottom and pry it up. Underneath is a manilla envelope with crisp corners and a newly-bent clasp. She pulls it out.

It’s probably nothing, but she’s learned not to ignore her hunches. Her great-aunt always lamented that she had a nose for trouble, and Peggy’s found no other skill as helpful in her work.

There’s something wrong. It started years ago - before she started looking for Eisenhower’s mole. Agents going on missions where there are none, paper trails leading to nowhere. She doesn’t know what it means, yet. Something’s still missing. Her network - small business owners, newsstand operators - helps in lieu of SHIELD. It’s the closest she can come to an external monitoring network without asking one of the other agencies. She’s not ready for that; they’ve been baying for her blood for years, and she’s not going to hand them the killing dagger.

“How’s the prez?” Howard asks.

He’s leaning in her doorway, the bullpen dark and empty behind him. Peggy returns to the notes spread over her desk, adding meticulously printed comments where necessary.

“How’s Ivan?” she replies.

Howard snorts. The door clatters shut, and the chair screeches as he pulls it out.

“Cagey,” he answers.

“Attentive,” Peggy says.

In her periphery, she can see Howard pick up the picture frame on the corner of her desk and glance at it before setting it down again. He works through the few other trinkets on her desk in the same manner, as if his hands are working without any of his own attention.

“He’s just using us, you know,” Howard remarks.

Peggy hums and strikes out a misspelled word. Over it, she prints [name of something idk].

“Of course,” she agrees.

She learned, at some point, that no one in politics works with anyone else without a purpose. She’s not sure when that became clear; she doesn’t think she knew it during the war. Back then, she believed there was a right side to the war, that the Howling Commandos were the right men to fight for it, that Steve Rogers was the right man to lead. She believed in Steve because he filled her with the same righteous fire she’d felt upon joining the war, upon secreting Abraham out of Germany. Now, she can’t help but think of all the ways she could use him. What she would give for a man and a suit that could reassure the nation with one silent film reel now.

“And Ivan?” she asks. “How do you think he’s using us?”

“Ivan?” Howard says. “C’mon, Pegs, he hasn’t asked for anything. He’s our inside man.”

“Mhm,” Peggy hums, noncommittal.

She can feel Howard frown without looking up. She caps her pen and closes up the folder. She doesn’t put it away yet; there’s no sense in showing Howard another hiding place in which to snoop. He eyes it curiously before giving a dismissive huff.

“You’re still following that mole theory?” he asks. “You know it’s a dead-end, don’t you?”

“It's not just a mole, Howard,” she corrects, again. “There are agents where we've sent none, missing reports from where we have sent them, and Arnim Zola is-”

Howard’s posture rearranges entirely into sympathetic condescension.

“Zola?” he says. “Pegs, are you sure this isn't about something else?”

She closes her mouth with a click and stares at him. Howard has never needed much encouragement on an idiot idea.

“Look, I know Zola’s always gonna be on your blacklist - hell, he's on mine! - but you gotta let it go. Cap’s been gone almost fifteen years now, and Zola wasn't even responsible for that,” he says.

“This has nothing to do with Steve Rogers,” Peggy replies, clipped.

Howard raises a dubious eyebrow.

“Really? ‘Cause you've had an eye on him since he was recruited,” he remarks.

Underneath her carefully maintained armor, Peggy bristles. She’s had an eye on him because she has an eye on every potential threat because that is her job: to protect and to prevent until she is no longer capable of doing so. That is what SHIELD stands for, not the carefully selected acronym. They are the sleepless soldier standing between the world and anarchy.

“I've kept an eye on him because Johann Schmidt kept a hand on him,” she says. “There is no more likely mole than the Red Skull’s right hand.”

Howard looks as if he's trying to be sympathetic and struggling. He's gotten no better at it since 1948.

“Why don't you go home, Peggy? It’s late. When’s the last time you spent an evening with your family?” 

“Get out,” she says evenly.

He looks startled, like he expected anything else. She waits, meeting his gaze steadily. She won’t balk on this, not anymore. She learned her lesson years ago. Howard stares at her, mouth open like a fish, before he finally turns on his heel and walks out. The door hangs open in his wake with the gaping black bullpen just beyond.

\------

He works her, hard. She pushes back, training with a determination that belies her small frame. He knew someone like that, he thinks, someone who refused to believe they could do any less just because their body said so. He doesn’t know who it was, but he has the strangest feeling that if they and Natalia ever met, the world would shake on its foundations. He smiles at the thought.

They go on missions occasionally. He doesn’t speak much, if at all, and Natalia seems to accept that. She watches him sometimes, like she’s waiting for him to show another face. Sometimes he looks at himself the same way in the mirror.

The artefacts have only gotten worse the longer he’s been kept out of cryo. It’s been months since he last was reprogrammed, and they crawl out of his programming like grubs in the dirt. It only took a few weeks for ‘it’ to become ‘he,’ and as Natalia’s training progresses, the artefacts come as spectres, nightmares, placeless names.

He was programmed to report any errors, he knows. He doesn’t. The handlers say Natalia stabilizes him, and they are pleased. They send them on missions together and let them have free time, a novel idea to the both of them. He ends up teaching her poker, using a deck of cards she stole from the guardroom. It’s a terrible game; they’re both too good at lying and neither of them own anything to gamble.

“They call you the American, sometimes,” she says at one point.

He meets her gaze and finds it appraising. It’s a change from the blank mask she’s worn all night through the game. He raps his metal fingers twice against the concrete, their sign for checking. She turns to study her cards, though he can still feel her scrutiny.

“I’ve never met an American before,” she says and places an unopened pack of cigarettes on the floor between them.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

1963

_ Washington, D.C. _

Peggy frowns, flipping through her latest report from Alabama. SHIELD has kept a close eye on the unrest building there for years - one of her first security memos to Eisenhower had highlighted it as a domestic priority - but she isn’t surprised that it’s been ignored. That memo has undoubtedly been conveniently disappeared by now.

“Russians or the South?”

She looks up to find Daniel leaning in the doorway to the living room.

“The latter,” she says.

He nods and makes his way into the kitchen and over to the coffee pot. The winter sun hasn’t risen yet, and the only light comes from a desk lamp Peggy moved to the table. Daniel sits down with two mugs of coffee in hand. He sits one close enough for Peggy to reach but out of the way her papers.

“When’d you get in last night?” he asks.

Peggy glances at the kitchen clock.

“Two hours ago,” she says and turns back to her reports.

“Jesus, Peggy,” he swears.

He scrubs his face with a hand in her periphery. She knows what he’ll say, and she focuses on her reports instead.

“You can’t keep running yourself down like this,” he says. “You’re going to burn out.”

Peggy shrugs and marks a point to come back to.

“The weekend’s in two days,” she says.

“And you’ll be in the office then, too,” Daniel snaps.

Ah. So they’re doing this.

Peggy caps her pen and sets it down on top of the current report. She folds her hands overtop and turns to Daniel, placid.

“What do you want, Daniel?” she asks.

He looks terrible: dark circles under his eyes, hair ruffled and rooster-tailed, face sleep-creased. She knows he’s been pulling long hours between the office and the kids, but she hadn’t entirely noticed. She’s not home often enough to give it thought.

“What do I want?” he echoes. “Christ, Peggy, this isn’t a business meeting.”

When she only meets his outburst with unstirred calm, he releases his mug to rub his hands over his face and into his hair. 

“I want my wife back,” he mutters into his palms.

“I am the director of SHIELD, Daniel,” she reminds him. “You knew that when we married.”

“When we got married, you actually came home at night,” he says. “Hell, we even occasionally got to have dinner together. Do you know, I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile?”

She doesn’t flinch. She’s trained herself out of that. Still, his words strike some unexpected chord in her. It seems ridiculous, but she can’t find any way to refute it. 

“We live in difficult times, Daniel,” she says. “My job requires sacrifice.”

He stares at her, flat and unhappy. There’s a weariness in his eyes that has nothing to do with sleeplessness.

“And we’re just collateral damage?” he asks.

“Daniel-”

“No, Peggy,” he says and stands. “I can’t do this right now.”

He leaves her sitting in silence, her work spread across the table. The room seems colder in his absence, but she shakes that thought from her head. She can’t afford sentimentality. Not anymore.

\------

He blinks into wakefulness. He sleeps lightly these days, though he has distant memories of having to be dragged into consciousness. There’s someone in his room. He breathes in slowly and then, forcefully, relaxes. Natalia smells like sweat and blood, always, and a certain metallic scent that is unique to her. Tonight, though, there’s something else. He straightens, swinging off the cot and standing in a defensive pose.

“Vanya,” she whispers.

She chose the name, picked it out when he had none to give her. It’s better than ‘the asset,’ but it doesn’t quite feel like his. He’s out of practice of having a name.

“Vanya,” she repeats.

“Natalia?” he asks, hoarse.

Her footsteps are near silent as she crosses the room. He’s still standing ready to fight, but she only stops directly before him. She doesn’t meet his eyes; her gaze goes just over his left shoulder.

“They took the other girls,” she says. “The dormitory is empty.”

_ Oh. _ He doesn’t need her to say any more. He lays back down. The cot is small and he is large, but he lays on his side and she manages to tuck up against his chest like a cat. He wraps the metal arm around her gently and keeps his eyes on the empty doorway.

\------

“Tell me about Iran,” Peggy says, walking into the conference room.

The agents there hurry to stand while spreading out their reports and notes. She waves a hand at them as she sits, gesturing for them to carry on.

“Reports are just coming in, Director ma’am,” one says.

“But it appears Khomeini has been arrested for his speech against the Shah,” another continues, shooting the first a glaring look. “Protests have started in Tehran, Qom, Shiraz, Mashhad, and Varamin so far. The response has been violent.”

Peggy nods, glancing over the briefs laid out for her. The agents have a projector set up, and they flick through blurry photos as they speak.

“How violent?” she asks.

“Martial law, curfew, the Imperial Guard have been deployed,” the second continues.

There are shots of bodies carried on stretchers, faces distorted and bruised. A shot of Kohmeini himself, blurry as if the car he’s in is moving. Faceless people, featureless in the black-and-white shot, their arms blurry as the flags they hold aloft.

“To be fair, the protests haven’t been peaceful either,” the third agent objects.

“This isn’t a moral question, Petersen, Miles,” Peggy chides. “What is the status of our agents?”

Petersen’s lips twitch in irritation, but he holds his tongue. Miles only nods and turns to flip over a report and slide it down to Peggy.

“So far, they’re all safe,” she says. 

Peggy nods once, curt, and skims the report. She pauses three sentences from the end of the second page.

  
  


[ADD IN ACTUAL STUFF THIS IS JUST SELF-INDULGENCE]

“They don’t want me to go to Dallas,” Kennedy remarked. “Hell, Dallas doesn’t want me to go.”

He’s been flipping a pen back and forth for the better part of ten minutes while Peggy works through a file. She’s not surprised he’s brought it up, only a bit exasperated it’s taken this long.

“It does seem risky,” Peggy remarks lightly.

He rolls his eyes good naturedly.

“Come on, Peggy,” he says. “I’m not asking for the Director of SHIELD’s opinion, I’m asking for Peggy’s.”

She hesitates before sighing and setting her pen down.

“Ours are not safe jobs,” she says, “but I don’t believe they would be necessary if they were. America was founded on one principle above all else: that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or dangers. When the mob and the press and the whole world tells you to move, it’s your job to plant yourself like  a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world, ‘No,  _ you _ move.’”

He taps the pen once against the stack of papers before him as if marking an emphatic period.

“Yeah,” he says. “That's what I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here motivation died a cruel and extremely slow death RIP to this WIP


End file.
